. 


IN  THE  SHADOW 
OF  THE  ALAMO 

By 

Clara  Driscoll 

Author  of  "  The  Girl  of  La  Gloria,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  Florence  Eagar 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 

Cbc  Knickerbocker  press 

1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1906 

i:v 

CLARA   DRISCOLL 


Ubc  ttntcfcerbocfccr  Crew,  flew  JJorb 


To 

MRS.   MARY  KINGDON 


M541105 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  CUSTODIAN  OF  THE  ALAMO: 

I.  THE    PAST         ....         3 

II.  THE    PRESENT          ...  30 
SISTER  GENEVIEVE  55 
JUANA  OF  THE  MISSION  DE  LA  CONCEPCION  79 
THE  OLD  PRIEST  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO  DE  LA 

ESPADA  ....     105 

TOMMY  HUNTRESS  .         .         .         .123 

PHILLIPA,  THE  CHILI  QUEEN    .         .         .145 
THE  RED  ROSE  OF  SAN  JOSE    .         .         .163 


THE  CUSTODIAN  OF  THE 
ALAMO 


THE  CUSTODIAN  OF  THE 
ALAMO 


I 

The  Past 

IV  A  ORE  than  two  hundred  years  ago 

Spanish  missionaries  built  a  chain 

of  fortress-churches   stretching  from  the 

Sabine  to  the  Rio  Grande.    To-day  these 

churches  are  ruins. 

Out  of  the  chaos  of  crumbling  stone, 
rusting  iron,  fading  colors,  and  defaced 
carvings  stands  one  picturesque  edifice, 
grim,  sinister,  silent,  marked  by  the  scars 
of  battle  and  stained  with  the  blood  of 
brave  souls  who  fought  and  died  in  its 
defence.  It  is  the  shrine  of  Texas  in- 
dependence and  glory,  the  most  con- 
spicuous monument  left  to  the  memory 


The  Custodian  of 

of  her  brave  and  heroic  sons.  Though 
situated  in  the  business  centre  of  that 
quaint  old  Spanish- American  city  of  San 


Antonio,    it    stands    apart    and    aloof, 
wrapped  in  its  own  solitude. 

This  crumbling  ruin  is  the  chapel  of 
the  Mission  of  San  Antonio  de  Valero, 
named  the  Alamo — the  Spanish  for  cot- 
tonwood — from  the  trees  along  the  river 
bank  and  acequia.  First  established  on 
the  Rio  Grande  in  1700,  the  Mission  was 
removed  to  San  Antonio  in  1718,  and  to 
the  spot  on  which  it  now  stands  in  1 744. 

4 


The  Alamo 

The  fall  of  the  Alamo  occurred  March  6, 
1836. 

To  understand  and  appreciate  the 
story  of  the  Alamo,  and  the  devotion  of 
that  little  band  of  brave  men  who  died 
there,  one  must  know  the  conditions 
existing  between  Mexico  and  Texas  at 
that  time. 

The  American  settlers,  mostly  from 
Tennessee,  Connecticut,  Mississippi,  and 
Kentucky,  who  had  come  to  Texas  with 
the  fair  promises  of  the  Mexicans  ringing 
in  their  ears,  soon  learned  on  what  false 
and  empty  words  they  had  relied.  The 
protection  which  they  had  counted  upon, 
and  which  they  had  reason  to  expect, 
was  denied  them  by  their  swarthy- 
skinned  neighbors. 

When  Santa  Anna,  the  President  of 
Mexico,  fearing  the  independent  spirit  of 
the  Texans  and  foreseeing  probable  diffi- 
culty with  them,  issued  an  order  that  all 

5 


The  Custodian  of 


arms  should  be  surrendered  by  the 
Texans,  these  indomitable  pioneers  arose 
in  indignation  and  absolutely  refused  to 
obey.  Then  followed 
the  fight  at  Gonzales 
for  the  possession  of 
a  brass  cannon  held 
by  the  Texans,  with 
the  result  that  the 
Mexican  troops  were 
scattered. 

Just  before  the  skirmish  the  Rev.  W. 
P.  Smith,  a  man  much  admired  and 
loved  by  the  pioneers  for  his  courage 
and  goodness,  addressed  his  fellow-de- 
fenders of  Texas  liberty  with  the  follow- 
ing spirited  words: 

4  *  Mexico  has  now  sent  an  army  to 
commence  the  disarming  system.  Give 
up  this  cannon  and  we  may  surrender  our 
small  arms  also,  and  at  once  be  the  vassals 
of  the  most  unstable  and  most  imbecile 

6 


The  Alamo 

government  upon  earth.  Will  Texas  give 
up  her  arms?  Every  response  is  No, 
NEVER!  Never  will  she  submit  to  such 
degradation.  Fellow- soldiers,  the  cause 
for  which  we  are  contending  is  just, 
honorable,  glorious — our  liberty. 

"The  same  blood  that  animated  the 
hearts  of  our  ancestors  in  1776  still  flows 
warm  in  our  veins.  Let  us  present  a  bold 
front  to  the  enemy.  In  numerical  strength 
the  nation  against  which  we  contend  is 
our  superior,  but  so  just  and  holy  is  the 
cause  for  which  we  contend  that  the 
strong  arm  of  Jehovah  will  lead  us  on  to 
victory,  to  glory,  and  to  empire.  With 
us,  everything  is  at  stake — our  firesides, 
our  wives,  our  children,  and  our  country 

"We  must  conquer." 

The  Texans  were  now  fully  awakened 
to  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  Sam 
Houston,  the  man  who  afterwards  be- 
came President  of  the  Republic  of  Texas, 

7 


The  Custodian  of 


was  made  commander  of  the  forces  to  be 
raised  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  State. 
His  first  address  shows  of  what  sterling, 
fearless  qualities  these  fathers  of  an  em- 
pire State  were  composed. 
It  reads  as  follows : 

!<  The  time  has  arrived  when  the  revo- 
lutions in  the  interior 
of  Mexico  have  resulted 
in  the  creation  of  a  dic- 
tator, and  Texas  is 
compelled  to  assume  an 
attitude  defensive  of  her 
rights  and  the  lives  and 
property  of  her  citizens. 
War  is  our  only  alterna- 
tive. *  War  in  defence  of 
our  rights'  must  be  our 
motto.  The  morning  of 
glory  has  dawned  upon 
us.  The  work  of  liberty 
has  begun.  Our  actions  are  to  be- 


The  Alamo 

come  a  part  of  the  history  of  mankind. 
Patriot  millions  will  sympathize  with  our 
struggles,  while  nations  will  admire  our 
achievements. 

4 'Rally  around  the  standard  of  the 
constitution,  entrench  your  rights  with 
manly  resolution,  and  defend  them  with 
heroic  firmness.  Let  your  valor  proclaim 
to  the  world  that  liberty  is  your  birth- 
right. We  cannot  be  conquered  by  all 
the  arts  of  anarchy  and  despotism  com- 
bined. In  Heaven  and  valorous  hearts 
we  repose  our  confidence." 

When  there  went  forth  proclamations 
with  words  as  patriotic  as  these,  it  is 
no  wonder  that  the  alien  sons  of  Texas 
gained  the  glorious  independence  they 
sought  for  the  State  of  their  adoption. 
Following  closely  on  the  fight  at  Gonzales 
was  the  capture  of  Goliad  by  the  Texans, 
and  the  battle  of  Conception,  also  a  de- 
cided victory  for  the  cause  of  liberty. 

9 


The  Custodian  of 

A  general  consultation  at  San  Felipe 
was  held  and  Sam  Houston  was  made 
commander-in-chief  of  the 
army  of  Texas.    Then  came 
iX    the  capture  of  San  Anto- 
\  nio,   and  Santa  Anna,   en- 
raged at  the  defeat  of  the 
£/l  army   under   General   Cos, 
determined  to  subdue  at  all 
costs  the  successful  Texans. 
The    conditions    of    the    surrender    of 
General  Cos  manifested  a  spirit  of  fair- 
ness, even  generosity,  on  the  part  of  the 
patriots. 

"  i.  Cos  and  his  army  were  allowed  to 
depart  with  their  arms  and  private  prop- 
erty on  the  promise  that  they  would  never 
oppose  the  return  of  Mexico  to  a  purely 
republican  form  of  government,  nor  take 
up  arms  against  Texas. 

11 2.  All  convict  soldiers  were  to  be 
taken  entirely  out  of  Texas. 

10 


The  Alamo 

"3.  Those  Mexican  troops  who  wished 
to  leave  the  army,  or  remain  in  San 
Antonio,  were  to  be  permitted  to  do  so. 

"4.  All  public  property  was  to  belong 
to  the  victors." 

Quite  an  opposite  spirit  was  shown  in 
the  plans  made  public  by  Santa  Anna 
for  conquering  Texas: 

"i.  All  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
rebellion  were  to  be  driven  from  the 
province. 

"2.  All  who  were  not  rebels  were  to  be 
removed  far  into  the  interior. 

"3.  The  best  lands  were  to  be  given  to 
the  Mexican  officers  and  soldiers. 

"4.  No  one  from  the  United  States  was 
to  be  allowed  to  settle  in  the  province 
under  any  circumstances.  The  Texans 
were  to  pay  all  the  expenses  of  the  war. 
Every  foreigner  who  should  bring  arms 
or  military  stores  into  Texas  was  to  be 
considered  and  treated  as  a  pirate." 


The  Custodian  of 


fl 


On  February  23,  1836,  General  Santa 
Anna  came  into  San  Antonio  at  the  head 
of  his  army  of  four  thousand  men.  In- 
side the  Alamo,  or  Mission  of 
San  Valero,  were  gathered  one 
hundred  and  forty -five  Texans, 
ready  to  give  up  their  lives 
rathsr  than  surrender  to  the 
,  Mexican  despot. 

Commanding  this  gallant  little 
band  was  Colonel  William  Bar- 
ret Travis,  and  with  him  were 
"Davy"  Crockett,  Bowie,  and 
Bonham.  To  many  the  name 
of  Bowie  suggests  only  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  desirable  knife, 
whereas  it  should  thrill  them 
with  the  example  of  a  man  who  died 
for  the  rights  and  the  flag  of  his 
country.  Davy  Crockett  and  his  'coon 
song  bring  laughter  to  the  lips  of  the 
unknowing,  but  those  who  realize  the 


12 


The  Alamo 

sacrifice  of  his  life  for  his  principles  think 
of  him  with  wet  lashes. 

Travis,  the  youthful  commander  of  the 
fort,  lies  under  the  sod  for  whose  glory 
he  fought,  unheralded  and  unsung.  Let 
us  scan  the  lists  of  the  mighty  dead  and 
where  can  we  find  names  that  stand  ahead 
of  these?  So  long  as  there  are  people  to 
venerate  immortal  glory,  these  names  will 
live  with  the  great  hero-martyrs  of  his- 
tory, for  no  man  can  do  more  than  give 
up  his  life  for  liberty  and  his  country. 

The  story  of  the  sacrifice  can  never  be 
told  too  often.  Upon  Santa  Anna's  de- 
mand for  the  immediate  surrender  of  the 
little  garrison  defending  the  Alamo,  the 
mouth  of  a  cannon  sent  back  the  answer, 
and,  almost  before  its  ominous  echoes  had 
died  away,  a  blood-red  flag  was  hoisted 
from  the  tower  of  San  Fernando  Cathe- 
dral, Santa  Anna's  headquarters.  Its 
meaning  was  "No  quarter. " 
13 


The  Custodian  of 

Stubbornly,  in  the  face  of  its  red  folds, 
the  Texans  fought  for  ten  days  and 
nights,  watching  always,  and  not  without 
hope  that  reinforcements  would  come. 
On  the  third  of  March,  Colonel  Travis 
sent  out  an  appeal  to  the  convention  in 
session  at  Washington  on  the  Brazos, 
and  it  was  the  last  favor  that  these  brave 
souls  who  faced  death  so  unflinchingly 
ever  asked  of  man.  In  this  appeal  Travis 
said  that  ' '  the  blood-red  banners  which 
waved  over  the  church  at  Bexar,  and  in 
the  camp  above  him,  were  tokens  that 
the  war  was  one  of  vengeance  against 
rebels." 

At  the  same  time  he  wrote  to  a  friend 
in  Washington  County : 

"Take  care  of  my  little  boy.  If  the 
country  should  be  saved  I  may  make  him 
a  splendid  fortune,  but  if  the  country 
should  be  lost,  and  I  should  perish,  he 
will  have  nothing  but  the  proud  recollec- 
14 


The  Alamo 

tion  that  he  is  the  son  of  a  man  who  died 
for  his  country." 

The  only  relief  that  came  in  response 
was  a  force  of  thirty-two  men  from 
Gonzales,  brought  back  by  Captain  John 
W.  Smith.  They  managed  to  evade  the 
vigilance  of  the  Mexican  besiegers  and 
entered  the  fort  in  safety,  but  to  their 
ultimate  destruction.  While  the  men  in- 
side the  beleaguered  fort  now  numbered 
less  than  two  hundred,  Santa  Anna's 
army  had  increased  to  six  thousand — a 
mighty  host  against  a  handful. 

The  end  was  drawing  near.  On  the 
sixth  of  March  a  death-like  stillness  fell 
over  the  little  town.  The  roar  of  cannon 
was  hushed,  and  Travis  understood.  He 
called  his  little  force  together  and  spoke 
to  them: 

"MY  COMRADES:  Stern  necessity  com- 
pels me  to  improve  these  few  moments, 
while  the  enemy  has  ceased  bombarding 


The  Custodian  of 

and  withdrawn  to  an  unusual  distance. 
We  are  overwhelmed  and  our  fate  is 
sealed.  Within  a  few  days,  perhaps  with- 
in a  few  hours,  we  must  be  in  eternity.  I 
have  continually  received  the  promise  of 
help,  and  have  long  deceived  you  by  ex- 
tending you  this  hope,  from  the  fulness 
of  my  heart  instilling  you  with  courage 
and  bravery,  as  it  has  been  extended  me 
by  the  council  at  home. 

"But  they  have  evidently  not  been  in- 
formed of  our  perilous  condition,  or  ere 
this  would  have  come  to  our  assistance. 
My  last  call  on  Colonel  Fannin  remains 
unanswered  and  my  messengers  have  not 
returned.  The  probabilities  are  that  his 
command  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy,  or  that  our  couriers  have 
been  cut  off  and  have  not  reached  him. 

"It  is  no  longer  a  question  of  how  we 
may  save  our  own  lives,  but  how  best  to 
prepare  for  death  and  serve  our  country. 

16 


The  Alamo 

If  we  surrender  we  will  be  shot  without 
taking  the  life  of  a  single  enemy.  If 
we  try  to  make  our  escape  through  the 
Mexican  lines  we  will  be  butchered  be- 
fore we  can  despatch  our  adversaries.  To 
either  of  these  I  am  opposed  and  ask  you 
to  withstand  every  advance  of  the  enemy. 
And  when  they  shall  scale  our  walls  at 
last  and  storm  the  fort,  let  us  slay  them 
as  they  come,  as  they  leap  within  slay 
them,  as  they  raise  their  weapons  to  slay 
our  companions,  slay  we  all  of  them, 
until  our  arms  are  powerless  to  lift  our 
swords  in  defence  of  ourselves,  our  com- 
rades, and  our  country. 

"Yet  to  every  man  I  give  permission 
to  surrender  or  escape.  My  desire  and 
decision  is  to  remain  in  the  fort  and  fight 
as  long  as  breath  remains  in  my  body. 
But  do  as  you  think  best,  each  of  you,  and 
those  who  consent  to  remain  until  the 
end  will  give  me  joy  unspeakable. " 
17 


The  Custodian  of 

Travis  then  drew  his  sword  and  traced 
from  right  to  left  of  the  file  a  line.  Stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  centre  he  said : 

"I  now  want  every  man  who  is  de- 
termined to  stay  here  and  die  with  me 
to  come  across  that  line.  Who  will  be 
the  first?  March!" 

The  first  to  respond  was  Tapley  Hol- 
land, who  leaped  the  line  at  a  bound, 
exclaiming : 

"I  am  ready  to  die  for  my  country!  ' 

His  example  was  instantly  followed  by 
every  man  in  the  file,  except  one.  His 
name  was  Rose.  Every  sick  man  who 
could  walk  arose  and  tottered  across 
the  line. 

Colonel  Bowie,  who  could  not  leave  his 
bed,  said:  "Boys,  I  am  not  able  to  come 
to  you,  but  I  wish  that  some  of  you  would 
be  so  kind  as  to  move  my  cot  over  there." 
Four  men  instantly  ran  to  the  cot  and 
lifted  it  over  the  line.  Then  every  sick 

18 


The  Alamo 

man  that  could  not  walk  made  the  s#me 
request,  and  had  his  bunk  moved  in  the 
same  way. 

Colonel  Fannin  had  started  from  Goliad 
with  three  hundred  men  and  four  pieces 
of  artillery  to  help  the  men  in  the  Alamo, 
but  owing  to  sickness  of  his  troops,  want 
of  food,  and  lack  of  teams,  he  was  forced 
to  turn  back. 

As  in  the  Revolution,  there  was  but 
one  traitor  in  the  Alamo.  There  was  but 
one  who  refused  to  sacrifice  his  life.  He 
waited  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  and 
listened  to  the  bombardment  of  the 
fort  until  the  following  morning  at  sun- 
rise, when  it  ceased  entirely.  The  awful 
silence  that  followed  the  cannonading 
told  that  the  Alamo  had  fallen.  Since  the 
first  faint  streak  of  dawn  had  tinged  the 
eastern  horizon,  the  comrades  Rose  had 
deserted  were  dauntlessly  meeting  their 

deaths. 

19 


The  Custodian  of 

Before  nine  o'clock  the  last  gallant 
defender  of  the  Alamo  had  gone  to  his 
reward,  and  as  these  men  had  fought,  so 
they  died,  with  the  word  " liberty"  on 
their  stiffening  lips. 

A  Mexican  sergeant  named  Becerra, 
thus  graphically  pictures  that  end: 

' '  There  was  an  order  to  gather  our  own 
dead  and  wounded.  It  was  a  fearful  sight. 
Our  lifeless  soldiers  covered  the  ground 
surrounding  the  Alamo.  They  were 
heaped  inside  the  fortress.  Blood  and 
brains  covered  the  earth  and  the  floors 
and  had  spattered  the  walls.  The  ghastly 
faces  of  our  comrades  met  our  gaze,  and 
we  removed  them  with  despondent  hearts. 
Our  loss  in  front  of  the  Alamo  was  repre- 
sented at  two  thousand  killed  and  more 
than  three  hundred  wounded.  The  killed 
were  generally  struck  on  the  head;  the 
wounds  were  on  the  neck  or  shoulder, 
seldom  below  that. 

20 


The  Alamo 


4 'The  firing  of  the  besieged  was  fear- 
fully precise.  When  a  Texas  rifle  was 
levelled  on  a  Mexican  he  was  considered 
as  good  as  dead.  All  this  indicated  the 
dauntless  bravery  and  cool  self-possession 
of  the  men  who  were  engaged  in  a  hope- 
less conflict  with  an  enemy  numbering 
more  than  twenty  to  one. 
They  inflicted  on  us  a  loss 
ten  times  greater  than 
they  sustained.  The  vic- 
tory of  the  Alamo  was 
dearly  bought.  Indeed, 
the  price  in  the  end  was 
well-nigh  the  ruin  of 
Mexico." 

Santa  Anna,  the  President  of  Mexico 
had  won  a  victory,  but  the  final  result  of 
this  victory  was  defeat  for  Mexico,  and 
left  the  "Lone  Star  of  Texas"  floating 
proudly  over  an  independent  nation. 

By    order    of    Santa    Anna    a    large 


21 


The  Custodian  of 

pile  of  wood  was  collected.  The  bodies 
of  the  vanquished  martyrs  were  heaped 
upon  this  pile  and  burned.  The  flames 
kindled  by  the  bodies  illumined  the 
heavens  and  vast  stretches  of  prairie  land, 
curling  blood-red  up  towards  the  blue  of 
the  Texas  sky— a  prophetic  warning  of 
coming  conquests. 

It  was  not  in  the  records  of  justice  that 
men  like  the  defenders  of  the  Alamo 
should  meet  such  a  death  without  ven- 
geance following.  And  such  vengeance 
was  speedy  and  complete.  It  came  on 
the  battle-field  of  San  Jacinto,  where  the 
troops  of  Santa  Anna  went  down  forever 
before  the  fury  of  the  Texans,  and  the 
dictator  himself  was  captured  while  try- 
ing to  make  his  escape  in  the  disguise  of 
a  common  soldier.  His  fine  linen  shirt 
and  jewelled  studs  betrayed  his  identity 
to  the  men  who  captured  him — not,  how- 
ever, as  Santa  Anna,  but  as  some  officer 

22 


The  Alamo 

of  high  rank — and  he  was  brought  before 
Houston,  who  lay  wounded  under  a  tree. 
Though  not  generally  recorded  in  his- 
tory,  the  writer  knows,  from  information, 
obtained  from  the  sons  of  men  who  fought 
at  San  Jacinto,  that  the  only  thing  that 
saved  the  life  of   the   Mexican  general 
was  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Mason,  as  was 
General   Houston.     The  night  following 
Santa  Anna's  capture,  a  guard,  composed 
entirely    of    members    of    the    Masonic 
fraternity,    was    placed    over   him,    and 
when  a  party  of  Texans  surrounded  the 
tent  and  demanded  that  the  prisoner  be 
delivered  to  them,  that  they  might  deal 
with  him  in  a  way  which  they  thought 
he  justly  deserved,  they  were  repulsed  at 
the  point  of  bayonets. 


Some  twenty  years  ago  the  State  of 
Texas  bought  the  chapel  of  the  Alamo 
from  the  Catholic  Church,  paying  for  it 
23 


The  Custodian  of 

twenty  thousand  dollars.  During  the 
years  following,  the  name  Alamo  had  be- 
come almost  meaningless.  Recently  a 
noble  body  of  women,  the  Daughters  of 
the  Republic  of  Texas,  succeeded  in  in- 
ducing the  Legislature  of  the  State  to 
purchase  the  adjoining  property — the 
ground  upon  which  the  mission  convent 
was  built,  and  upon  which  now  stands  a 
building  used  as  a  grocery  store.  This 
it  is  their  intention  to  demolish,  and  to 
erect  in  its  place  a  Texas  Hall  of  Fame. 
In  this  temple  will  be  placed  statues  and 
busts  of  the  State's  famous  dead,  and  here 
will  also  be  preserved  the  records  of  the 
dark  and  stormy  days  which  made  possi- 
ble the  glorious  present.  In  addition  to 
this  the  society  will  foster  the  study  of 
Texan  history  and  the  movement  for  the 
preservation  of  historic  landmarks  and 
relics. 

These  Daughters  of  the  Republic  of 

24 


The  Alamo 

Texas  are  the  descendants  of  patriots 
who  have  left  them  a  heritage  unequalled 
in  the  annals  of  time,  for  fearlessness, 
bravery,  and  courage.  Could  any  society 
have  a  more  worthy,  more  beneficial 
object,  than  that  of  keeping  alive  in  a 
country  its  patriotic  enthusiasm,  which, 
after  all,  is  the  keynote  to  a  nation's 
greatness  ?  By  the  honoring  of  a  glorious 
past  we  strengthen  our  present,  and  by 
the  care  of  our  eloquent  but  voiceless 
monuments  we  are  preparing  a  noble 
inspiration  for  our  future. 

To  the  indefatigable  and  untiring  en- 
ergy of  the  Daughters  of  the  Republic, 
Texas  owes  the  grateful  debt  of  being 
able  to  show  in  what  manner  she  honors 
and  venerates  her  valiant  and  heroic 
dead.  But  of  more  significance  is  the 
preservation,  as  memorials  for  the  inspira- 
tion of  future  generations  of  Texans,  of 
the  crumbling  monuments  and  changing 
25 


The  Custodian  of 

battle-fields  where  died  in  the  cause  of 
freedom  the  fathers  of  the  State — men 
who  made  the  names  of  San  Jacinto, 
Goliad,  and  the  Alamo  immortal. 

Progress,  the  essence  of  prosperity,  is 
the  embodiment  of  Americanism.  But 
from  the  tourist's  point  of  view  progress 
loses  twenty-fold  in  competition  with 
sacred  ruins  and  picturesque  antiquity. 
A  gleam  from  the  blurred  lantern  on  one 
of  the  Chili  stands  in  the  plaza  counts  for 
more  with  them  than  a  block  of  modern 
buildings.  And  the  fame  of  heroes,  won 
through  the  Alamo  and  the  other  mis- 
sions, neglected  as  they  are  by  passers-by 
and  weather-beaten  by  time,  is  what  will 
endure  in  the  memory  of  all  who  have 
seen  or  read  of  the  old  city  of  San  Antonio. 

This  is  a  practical  age  we  live  in,  yet 
human  nature  craves  the  heroic  and  the 
ideal.  There  are  times  in  the  affairs  of 

every-day  life  when  one  must  stop  and 
26 


The  Alamo 

ponder  over  the  great  and  momentous 
deeds  of  bygone  times.  They  make  one's 
purpose  in  life  more  tangible,  more  real. 
That  men  before  your  time  have  done 
what  to-day  seems  impossible,  gives  you 
a  new  inspiration,  a  greater  strength  of 
will  and  purpose  to  fight  according  to 
your  ability  the  battle  that  life  has 
prepared  for  you. 

How  many  of  you  in  San  Antonio  to- 
day have  really  contemplated  the  old 
Alamo  building  in  the  spirit  of  reminis- 
cence, and  learned  the  wonderful  lesson 
it  teaches — that  of  self-sacrifice?  Watch 
it,  if  you  have  that  privilege,  in  the 
silence  of  eventide,  when  the  glow  of  a 
departing  day  throws  its  radiant  color 
like  a  brilliant  crimson  mantle  about  the 
old  ruin.  How  clearly  the  old  battle  scars 
stand  out,  vivid  and  lurid  in  the  stones, 
red  as  the  blood  of  the  men  who  fought 
and  died  there.  Look  at  it  in  the  busy 
27 


The  Custodian  of 

hurry  of  every-day  life.  Calm  and  ma- 
jestic it  stands  amid  the  haggling  of 
trade  and  the  trafficking  of  commerce. 

Then  go  and  stand  before  it  on  a  night 
when  the  moon  throws  a  white  halo  over 
the  plaza;  when  the  lights  of  the  city  are 
darkened,  the  winds  of  heaven  hushed, 
and  the  soft  rippling  of  the  distant  river 
alone  is  heard.  How  its  sinister  old  face 
frowns  under  the  silver  beams,  as  if  it 
were  still  fighting  with  the  years  the  siege 
that  ended  with  the  martyrdom  of  the 
brave  spirits  whom  once  it  shielded. 

How  eloquently  it  speaks  to  us  in  its 
grimness  and  severity!  Think  of  the 
story  it  tells  to  every  true  Texan  heart— 
a  story  so  soul-stirring  that  the  recollec- 
tion of  it  should  make  us  all  lift  our  heads 
with  pride,  and  thank  God  that  we  are 
not  only  free-born  American  citizens,  but 
that  we  are  Texans  as  well.  Search  the 

histories  of  the    world  and  you  will  not 

28 


The  Alamo 

find  a  deed  to  equal  that  of  the  men 
who  died  within  the  Alamo  that  Texas 
might  be  free,  for  "  Thermopylae  had  its 
messenger  of  defeat — the  Alamo  had 
none." 


II 

The  Present 

DONALD  HARWOOD  quitted  the 
*  ^  carriage  reluctantly  as  it  stopped 
in  front  of  the  chapel  of  the  Alamo.  He 
looked  into  the  chill  sombreness  of  the 
interior  of  the  church,  shivered  slightly, 
then  turned  his  gaze  toward  the  sun-filled 
plaza.  He  was  loath  to  leave  its  warmth 
and  brightness.  The  swaying  palms  in 
the  centre  of  the  square,  the  lazy,  slowly- 
moving,  cosmopolitan  crowd  that  filled 
the  narrow,  crooked  streets,  all  spoke  of 
the  mariana  country. 

The  old  Spanish-American  city  of  San 
Antonio  is  very  Southern  in  its  habits, 
Mexican  in  its  local  color,  and  tropical  in 
its  climate.  The  aftermath  of  a  foreign 
dynasty,  old  and  picturesque,  still  per- 
30 


The  Alamo 

vades  the  atmosphere  of  the  town.  It 
is  a  land  of  caressing  sunshine  and  white 
moonlight — a  land  where  the  air  is  ever 
filled  with  the  seductive  odor  of  a  fresh, 
blossoming  flower. 

Near  by,  in  the  shadow  of  the  entrance 
to  the  chapel,  squatted  the  gaunt,  brown 
figure  of  a  Mexican  enveloped  in  a  gay 
zarape,  watching  with  unseeing  eyes  the 
hours  drag  wearily  by, — an  automaton, 
awakened  into  life  by  the  occasional  dust- 
ing, with  a  brush  made  of  strips  of  paper, 
the  flies  that  congregated  on  the  Mexican 
dulcies,  or  candies,  arranged  with  careful 
regularity  on  the  little  stand  beside  him. 

Though  Ronald  Harwood  had  only  just 
arrived  in  the  Texas  town,  on  his  way 

to  California,  in   his  private 

/•-^t 

car,  he  was  congratulating 
himself  upon  having  chosen  /  > 
this  Southern  route,  because 
it  afforded  him  a  few  hours' 
rest  in  the  quaint,  picturesque 
31 


The  Custodian  of 

old  town  of  San  Antonio.  He  had 
chosen,  as  all  strangers  do,  as  the 
first  object  of  his  sight-seeing,  the  Al- 
amo,— "the  Thermopylae  of  America." 
He  took  a  deep  breath  in  the  ozone-filled 
air,  then  stepped  across  the  threshold  of 
the  chapel  and  into  the  dense  cold 
shadows  within. 

' '  You  would  like  me  to  show  you  about 
the  church?" 

It  was  a  girl's  voice  that  came  from  out 
of  the  shadows,  deliciously  low  and  musi- 
cal— the  rich  tone  that  characterizes  the 
voice  of  Southern  women.  Its  owner  was 
standing,  half -obscured,  behind  a  glass- 
covered  case  filled  with  souvenirs. 

The  young  man  started  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  pleasure  and  surprise.  What 
he  said  was  this : 

"I  thought  I  had  left  all  the  sunshine 
outside." 

The  girl  frowned  slightly  and  blushed. 
32 


The  Alamo 

She  opened  the  case  and  took  out  a  small, 
paper-bound  book,  which  she  offered  to 
him. 

"A  full  description  of  all  the  rooms  is 
given  inside,"  she  said. 

He  saw  that  he  had  offended  her  and 
was  sorry  for  it. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  would  rather 
have  you  show  me  about  the  chapel — the 
light  is  poor — I  am  afraid  I  would  find  it 
rather  difficult  to  read. ' '  He  spoke  almost 
timidly. 

With  seeming  reluctance,  the  girl  left 
her  place  and  moved  to  the  centre  of  the 
chapel.  Harwood  followed  and  stood  be- 
side her. 

"This  room,"  indicating  with  a  grace- 
ful gesture  the  interior,  ' '  is  where  the 
last  stand  of  the  heroes  of  the  Alamo  was 
made."  She  paused 
and  looked  at  him  .  \  \ 
a  moment.  "You  > 


The  Custodian  of 

know,  of  course,  the  history  of  the  fall 
of  the  Alamo?"  she  asked  dubiously. 

Harwood  remembered  in  a  vague,  un- 
certain way  of  having  read  something 
about  it.  He  nodded  assent. 

"I  asked  you,"  the  girl  said,  " because 
so  few  strangers  who  come  here  seem  to 
know  anything  at  all  about  our  his- 
tory— in  fact,  Texans  even  are  pitifully 
ignorant  of  it."  She  laughed  a  little 
shamefacedly. 

11 1  should  not  have  said  that;  it  does 
not  sound  quite  loyal,  does  it?"  She 
was  growing  more  friendly,  but  she 
paused  again — his  eyes  were  discon- 
certing. 

"I  am  afraid,"  Harwood  admitted 
frankly,  "that  I  have  forgotten  about 
it — you  will  have  to  refresh  my  memory." 
Then  he  added  quickly:  "But  you  must 
be  tired  through  having  to  tell  the  story 
to  every  one  who  comes  here?" 

34 


The  Alamo 

The  girl's  great  eyes  opened  in  horrified 
surprise. 

' '  Tired  telling  the  story  of  the  greatest 
sacrifice  in  the  history  of  the  whole 
world — tired,  and  I  a  Texan!" 

The  pride  with  which  she  said  that  word 
"Texan"  was  a  revelation  to  Harwood. 
He  moved  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

"Please  tell  it  to  me;  I  should  love 
to  hear  it  from  you." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  con- 
tinued : 

' '  You  know  that  one  hundred  and  for- 
ty-five Texans  held  the  Mission  against 
the  attack  of  four  thousand  Mexicans?" 

"I  wras  not  so  sure  of  the  number," 
Harwood  answered  seriously. 

' '  I  must  read  you  the  letter,  the  noblest 
ever  penned,  that  Travis,  the  commander 
of  the  garrison,  sent  out  from  the  doomed 
fortress.  There  was  only  one  other  appeal 
for  aid  from  these  men."  The  girl  opened 

35 


The  Custodian  of 

the  book  she  held  in  her  hand  and  read 
in  a  voice  filled  with  fervid  enthusiasm: 

"  '  COMMANDANCY  OF  THE  ALAMO, 

'"BEJAR,  Feby.  24th,  1836- 
"  '  To  the  People  of  Texas  &  all  Americans 

in  the  world, 

11 1  FELLOW  CITIZENS  &  COMPATRIOTS — I 
am  besieged,  by  a  thousand  or  more  of 
the  Mexicans  under  Santa  Anna — I  have 
sustained  a  continued  Bombardment  & 
cannonade  for  24  hours  &  have  not  lost  a 
man — The  enemy  has  demanded  a  sur- 
render at  discretion,  otherwise,  the  garri- 
son are  to  be  put  to  the  sword,  if  the  fort 
is  taken — I  have  answered  the  demand 
with  a  cannon  shot,  &  our  flag  still  waves 
proudly  from  the  walls — /  shall  never  sur- 
render or  retreat.  Then,  I  call  on  you  in  the 
name  of  Liberty,  of  patriotism,  &  every- 
thing dear  to  the  American  character, 
to  come  to  our  aid,  with  all  despatch— 

The  enemy  is   receiving  reinforcements 
36 


The  Alamo 

daily  &  will  no  doubt  increase  to  three 
or  four  thousand  in  four  or  five  days. 
If  this  call  is  neglected,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  sustain  myself  as  long  as  pos- 
sible &  die  like  a  soldier  who  never 
forgets  what  is  due  to  his  own  honor  & 
that  of  his  country — VICTORY  OR  DEATH. 
"'Lt.Col.  comdt 

"  '  P.  S.  The  Lord  is  on  our  side— When 
the  enemy  appeared  in  sight  we  had  not 
three  bushels  of  corn — We  have  since 
found  in  deserted  houses  80  or  90  bushels 
&  got  into  the  walls  20  or  30  head  of 
Beeves — 

"'  TRAVIS'" 

The  color  had  risen  and  flushed  the 
girl's  cheeks.  Her  large  brown  eyes  grew 
bright  in  their  excitement. 

"Isn't  that  splendid?" 

Her  enthusiasm  was  infectious.  Har- 
wood  began  to  tingle  with  it. 

37 


The  Custodian  of 

"The  bulliest  thing  I  ever  heard  of  a 
man's  doing,"  he  said,  looking  into  her 
eyes. 

"It  was  here,"  she  went  on,  "that 
Travis  called  his  men  together  and  offered 
them  the  chance  of  escape  or  permission  to 
surrender,  and  told  them  of  his  determina- 
tion to  stay  in  the  fort  and  fight  to  the 
end.  He  then  took  his  sword  and  drew  a 
line  with  it  across  the  dirt  floor  of  the 
chapel  and  called  upon  those  who  were 
willing  to  die  with  him  for  the  sake  of  their 
country  to  step  across.  Colonel  Bowie 
—of  course  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  who 
he  was — asked  that  his  cot  be  carried 
across  the  line  and  placed  by  Travis's  side. 
Bowie  was  ill  at  the  time.  They  all,  ex- 
cept one,  followed  Bowie.  A  man  named 
Rose  hesitated,  and  finally  said  he  would 
take  the  chance  of  escaping,  which  he  did. 
But  think  of  it — out  of  one  hundred  and 
forty-five  men,  only  one  was  afraid  to  die. 
38 


The  Alamo 

"Inside  the  besieged  fortress  were  the 
small  number  of  valiant  Texans;  outside 
its  walls  were  more  than  five  thousand 
Mexican  troops,  ready,  eager,  at  the  word 
of  command  to  annihilate  the  trapped 
Texans.  In  order  to  make  you  understand 
more  clearly,  I  must  read  the  official 
orders  governing  the  attack: 

11  'OFFICIAL  ORDERS  FOR  ATTACK. 

11  '  The  reserves  will  be  composed  of 
the  battalion  of  Sappers  and  Miners,  and 
the  five  companies  of  the  Grenadiers 
of  the  Matamoras,  Jimenes  and  Aldamas 
battalions  of  regulars,  and  of  the  Toluca 
and  San  Luis  battalions  of  volunteers. 

"  '  The  reserve  will  be  commanded  by 
the  General-in-Chief.' 

"This  was  the  order  given  by  the 
President  of  Mexico,  and  commander  of 
her  armies,  to  six  thousand  Mexicans, 
the  elite  of  the  Mexican  army,  who 
had  been  besieging  less  than  two  hundred 

39 


The  Custodian  of 

Texans  for  thirteen  days.  It  speaks  for 
itself. 

"  On  March  yth  General  Santa  Anna 
issued  a  'Proclamation,'  in  which  he 
speaks  of  the  immolation  of  the  Tex- 
ans as  a  matter  of  justice,  and  argues 
that  the  'Army  of  Operations'  has  been 
marched  into  Texas  for  the  performance 
of  such  deeds. 

1  'Ah,  if  I  could  only  make  you  see  and 
feel  as  we  Texans  feel  about  that  terrible 
day,  but  I  can't."  The  girl  sighed — 
Harwood  was  entranced. 

"  Patiently  the  doomed  Texans  waited 
— waited  for  the  death  that  was  inevita- 
ble. It  was  at  dawn  that  the  attack  com- 
menced. Santa  Anna's  army  swept  down 
on  the  fortress.  Through  the  rain  of  shot 
it  crept  closer,  gaming  steadily,  until  the 
outer  walls  were  battered  down." 

The  girl  paused  an  instant. 

"It  is  terrible  to  think  of  that  great 
40 


The  Alamo 

army  of  Mexicans  swooping  down  on  the 
handful  of  Americans  inside  the  Mis- 
sion grounds.  The  Texans  fought  with  all 
the  fury  of  their  just  resentment  and 
the  courage  of  their  brave  souls.  When 
the  ammunition  had  been  exhausted  and 
the  cannon  were  no 
longer  available,  guns 
were  used  as  clubs  to 
fell  the  dark-skinned 
enemy.  The  Texans 
desperately  contest- 
ed every  inch  of 
ground  until  by  the 
overwhelm- 
ing force  of 
numbers  they 
were  forced 
back  into  the 
chapel,  where  the 
last  stand  was 
made. 


i 


The  Custodian  of 

"It  was  on  this  hallowed  spot  that 
the  little  band  of  Texans,  sorely  wounded 
and  with  clothing  torn  to  tatters  by  Mex- 
ican bullets,  stood  their  ground.  Not 
one  inch  did  they  give — it  was  fight  to 
the  death,  and  death  it  was.  After  a  hand- 
to-hand  conflict  lasting  two  hours  and  a 
half,  the  last  surviving  Texan  sank  to  the 
ground,  shot  to  death  by  Mexican 
bullets. 

"Though  the  Mexicans  shamefully  out- 
numbered the  Americans,  it  took  the 
bravery  of  a  Spartan  to  enter  that  chapel. 
Mowed  down  like  sheaves  of  wheat  with 
a  scythe,  the  Mexicans  fell  before  the 
deadly  fire  of  the  Texans.  The  Mexicans 
paid  thirteen-fold  for  the  life  of  every 
Texan,  and  every  Texan  gave  his  life's 
blood  that  his  country  should  be  freed  of 
Mexican  tyranny. 

"Oh!    you    do    not    wonder    why    we 

Texans  are  so  rightfully  proud  of  these 
42 


The  Alamo 

men  who  gave  us  freedom,  these  men 
who  died  here,  Travis,  Bowie,  Crock- 
ett, Bonham  and  all  the  rest." 

Harwood  delighted  in  the  quick  anima- 
tion and  patriotic  fire  of  this  daughter  of 
the  Lone  Star  State. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  wonder  and 
can  understand  now  why  you  are  proud 
of  the  Alamo.  It  is  the  finest  thing  I  ever 
heard." 

The  girl  turned  away  her  face  and 
Harwood  thought  the  pink  of  her  ear 
beautiful.  The  story  and  the  manner  to 
its  telling  thrilled  him,  as  it  thrills  all  who 
listen  to  its  recital. 

' '  It  was  n't  as  if  Travis  had  been  an  old 
man,  he  was  only  twenty-seven,"  said 
the  girl;  "that  wTas  young  to  die,  wasn't 
it?" 

Harwood  smiled.  "I  am  glad  now  I 
did  n't  die  at  twenty-seven." 

Again  the  girl  turned  from  him  suddenly. 

43 


The  Custodian  of 

"If  you  will  come  this  way  I  will  show 
you  the  room  in  which  Bowie  lay  sick." 
She  led  the  wray  to  a  small  room  to  the 
left  of  the  entrance. 

' '  During  the  siege  he  was  suffering  from 
pneumonia  and  was  nursed  by  a  Mexican 
woman.  He  was  killed  in  this  room  over 
here"  —the  girl  walked  to  the  room  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  chapel.  "This  is 
the  Baptistery  and  it  was  here  that  the 
women  congregated  and  here  they  brought 
Bowie,  that  he  might  die  with  the  others. 
On  his  sick-bed  he  fought  until  he  was 
shot  to  death  by  Mexican  bullets." 

Harwood  uttered  an  exclamation: 

"And  to  think  we  have  an  inspiration 
like  this  in  our  country  for  an  epic  and 
the  histories  fail  even  to  do  it  justice! " 

"Davy  Crockett  fell  outside  in  the 
court-yard,"  the  girl  went  on.  "That  old 
building  outside  is  soon  to  be  cleared 
away  and  a  fitting  surrounding  given  this 

44 


The  Alamo 

chapel.  'The  State  has  just  recently  pur- 
chased the  property.  It  was  through  the 
efforts  of  patriotic  women  that  it  was 
saved  for  historic  purposes." 

' '  In  whose  care  is  this  old  church  now  ? " 
Harwood  asked. 

''There  is  an  organization  in  Texas 
known  as  the  Daughters  of 
the  Republic.  Of  course 
you  know  the  members  of 
this  organization  are  the 
descendants  of  the  pioneei 
Texans — of  the  patriots  of  ,-4,'j 

the  State — the    men    who 
left  a  heritage  glorious  and  ^ 

unequalled  for  fearlessness, 
bravery,  and  courage." 

' '  You  are  one  of  them  ? " 
asked  Harwood. 

"You  should  know  that  without  ask- 
ing/' the  girl  replied,  "for  were  I  not  a 
Daughter  of  the  Republic  I  should  not  be 

45 


The  Custodian  of 

the  proper  custodian  of  the  Church,  for 
to  whom  else  are  the  walls  of  these  Texas 
ruins  so  sacred,  or  the  names  of  her  heroic 
dead  so  precious?" 

'You  make  one  envy  these  dead 
heroes.  Death  would  lose  its  terror  to 
have  one's  eulogy  sung  by  you,"  the  man 
replied. 

"Are  these  things  for  sale?"  Harwood 
asked,  looking  into  the  case. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "for  the  benefit 
of  the  Alamo  Fund." 

When  Harwood  had  finished  his  pur- 
chasing the  case  was  practically  empty. 

"Send  them  to  the  Southern  Pacific 
station,"  he  said.  "Harwood  is  the  name, 
Ronald  Harwood,  private  car  'Vera. " 

"That  name  is  very  familiar,"  the  girl 
said,  looking  up  after  writing  the  address ; 
"why,  you  are  the  son  of  the  president  of 
the  road." 

"Yes,"  Harwood  answered,  "I  am." 
46 


The  Alamo 

"You  are  just  passing  through?"  the 
girl  asked. 

"Yes,  I  leave  to-night  for  California. 
Would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name 
I  might  want  some  more  souvenirs."  He 
covered  a  smile  and  there  was  a  twinkle 
in  the  girl's  eyes  as  she  replied: 

"Just  address  me  as  Custodian  of  the 
Alamo. "  And  she  added:  "I  hope  you 
will  find  you  want  more  souvenirs ;  it  is 
good  for  the  Fund." 

They  both  laughed.  The  girl  looked  at 
her  watch. 

"I  am  sorry  to  turn  you  out,  but  I 
close  the  chapel  at  twelve,  to  go  home 
for  lunch." 

"Oh!  I  am  so  sorry,  it  is  nearly  one 
o'clock  and  I  have  kept  you  here  all  this 
time.  I  really  must  apologize,  but  you 
see  you  made  the  morning  so  interesting. 
I  forgot  even  time — will  you  forgive  me  ? ' ' 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive — you  made 

47 


The  Custodian  of 

the  morning  very  profitable,  so  we  are 
even." 

"Good-bye,  Miss " 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye.  I  hope  you  will  like  San 
Antonio  well  enough  to  come  again.  We 
who  live  here  think  it  has  a  great  charm." 

"It  has,  Miss- 

"Copely,"  the  girl  said,  "if  you  insist/ 

"I  shall  come  again,  Miss  Copely." 

For  a  moment — as  long  as  he  dared — 
he  held  the  small  hand  of  the  girl  in  his, 
and  when  she  drew  it  away  he  felt  he  had 
never  in  all  his  life  hated  to  give  up  any- 
thing so  much.  As  reluctantly  as  he  had 
entered  the  chapel,  he  left  it.  The  face  of 
its  fair  custodian  danced  in  the  sunlight 
before  his  eyes  and  the  story  of  the  old 
ruin  as  told  by  her  thrilled  him. 

The  sunlight  had  died  away  in  the 
west.  A  soft  night  wind  crept  up  from 

48 


The  Alamo 

the  southern  sea.  The  plaza  lay  in  semi- 
darkness.  The  gray  walls  of  the  old 
Alamo  frowned  upon  the  dusk. 

Again  Harwood  stood  before  the  ruin, 
irresolute,  as  before,  but  from  a  far 
different  cause.  It  was  not  the  cold  chill 
from  within  that  deterred  him,  but  a 
sudden  beating  of  his  heart  that  was  well- 
nigh  suffocating  him. 

Finally,  he  entered  and  found  Miss 
Copely  arranging  her  things  to  leave  for 
the  night.  She  looked  up,  surprised,  and 
if  the  light  had  been  better  he  would  have 
seen  a  deep  flush  of  happiness  spread  over 
the  girl's  face. 

; '  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  want  more 
souvenirs  so  soon?" 

It  hurt  him  that  she  spoke  so  lightly. 

"Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  speak  very 
plainly  to  you,  Miss  Copely?"  His  voice 
was  tense,  passion-filled.  "I  came  back 
because  I  could  not  leave  San  Antonio 

4  49 


The  Custodian  of 

without  seeing  you  again;  because  you 
are  the  one  woman  I  have  seen  who  has 
suddenly  interested  me  above  all  else; 
because — well,  because  I  love  you." 

The  stillness  of  the  chapel  was  intense, 
though  the  man's  heart  was  beating 
violently,  and  the  man's  words  had 
brought  to  the  girl's  heart  a  joy  that  she 
had  never  even  dreamed. 

He  was  now  close  beside  her.  She  could 
hear  his  quick  breathing  and  even  in  the 
darkness  she  could  feel  his  look  like  a 
caress. 

"  Won't  you  say  something  to  me,"  the 
man  persisted,  "just  a  word?  I  am  going 
away  to-night,  but  I  will  come  back  if 
you  ask  me  to — God  knows  I  want  to." 

The  girl  spoke  hardly  above  a  whisper. 

"What  could  I  say?" 

The  man  caught  her  hand  in  both  of 
his." 

"Tell  me  you  want  me  to  come  back," 
50 


The  Alamo 

he  pleaded.     "Tell  me  that  when  I  do 
come  back  you  will  let  me  take  you  with 


me.' 


"But  my  position  as  custodian  here?'* 

"Ah — if  you  only  knew  how  much  I 
needed  you.  There  are  many  who  can 
tell  of  the  valor  of  these  dead  heroes,  but 
there  is  only  one  who  can  satisfy  this 
living  being.  Say  you  want  me  to  come 
for  you.  I  shall  never  leave  unless  you 
do." 

The  girl  stood  back  from  him,  looking 
at  him  long  and  earnestly. 

;<  You  ask  me  this,  knowing  nothing  of 
me,  who  or  what  I  am?" 

Harwood  stepped  toward  her  quickly, 
and  took  her  in  his  arms.  ' '  I  ask  you  this 
because  I  love  you."  His  voice  sank 
to  a  whisper.  "What  does  the  rest 
matter — will  you  come  with  me,  sweet- 
heart?" 

In  the  darkness  of  the  chapel  his  eyes 
51 


The  Custodian  of  the  Alamo 

burned  into  hers,  his  warm  breath  fanned 
her  cheek. 

"If  you  love  me,"  he  pleaded,  "you 
will  come  with  me." 

Closer  she  nestled  in  his  arms,  and  with 
her  mouth  against  his  she  breathed  the 
words : 

"Yes,  I  will  come." 


SISTER  GENEVIEVE 


SISTER  GENEVIEVE 


HTHE  river  was  quiet  and  peaceful  in 
this  lonely  spot,  and  the  large  trees 
on  either  side  drooped  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  casting  long,  dark  shadows  in  the 
slowly  moving  current. 

The  place  seemed  shut  off  from  the 
world,  and  so  it  was,  for  the  drowsy  little 
stream  flowed  tranquilly  along  the  lower 
edge  of  the  large  grounds  that  belonged 
to  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

It  was  a  very  old  convent,  and  its 
crumbling  wralls  sheltered  good,  pure 
women  who  had  renounced  the  vanities 
of  the  world,  and  consecrated  their  lives 
to  God. 

In  the  waning  afternoon  of  one  of  the 
early  autumn  days,  when  the  light  was 

55 


Sister  Genevieve 


beginning  to  fade  a  little  in  the  clear  sky, 
and  the  young  trees  and  shrubs  wore  an 
aspect  of  lifelessness,  a  nun  was  resting 
in  this  secluded  place.  A  piece  of  half- 
finished  embroidery  was  lying  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  were  closed,  and  her  hand  was 
resting  wearily  against  the  trunk  of  a 
large  tree  back  of  the  bench  on  which  she 
was  sitting.  The  upturned  face  in  its 
whiteness  had  the  semblance  of  marble, 
and  the  lines  in  it  were  those  of  suffering 
rather  than  age,  for  Sister  Genevieve  was 
young,  and  had  worn 
the  black  veil  of  her 
order  but  a  short 
time. 

Most  of  her  school 
days  had  been  passed 
under  the  guidance  of 
these  good  Sisters,  and 
when  she  came  back 
to  them  to  take  up 
56 


Sister  Genevieve 

their  life  the  Mother  Superior  looked 
incredulously  at  the  beautiful  girl,  who 
was  giving  up  so  much  to  begin  an 
existence  of  unabating  sacrifice  and 
duty. 

She  had  been  in  retreat  only  a  few 
weeks  when  the  roses  faded  from  her 
cheeks,  leaving  them  almost  transparent 
in  their  clear  whiteness,  and  certain  lines 
about  the  face  had  greatly  saddened. 

The  good  Mother  was  fearful  lest  her 
favorite  young  charge  had  somewhat  re- 
pented of  her  hasty  decision  to  become  a 
bride  of  the  Church,  and  in  her  talks  with 
the  novice  had  hinted  at  such  possibilities, 
but  the  latter  had  assured  her  that  it 
was  not  so,  and  the  Mother  then  thought 
the  change  must  come  from  too  much 
prayer  and  meditation.  The  young  novice 
was  always  at  her  beads.  When  she  had 
at  last  taken  her  vows,  and  become  a 
cloistered  nun,  there  was  no  one  more 

57 


Sister  Geneveive 

beloved  than  the  sweet,  gentle  Sister 
Genevieve. 

There  was  very  little  resemblance  left 
in  this  silent  figure  to  the  bright,  beautiful 
girl  who  two  years  before  had  closed  the 
door  of  the  world,  with  its  pleasures  and 
pains,  and  had  come  to  finish  her  life  in 
the  service  of  God.  As  the  days  and 
months  went  by  Sister  Genevieve 's  pale- 
ness became  more  and  more  noticeable, 
until  she  seemed  to  be  fading  away,  and 
the  nuns  prayed  more  fervently  for  the 
restoration  of  this  sweet  Sister.  A  special 
dispensation  had  excused  her  from  the 
more  rigid  fasts.  Much  of  her  work  had 
been  taken  from  her,  and  she  was  allowed 
to  spend  a  great  part  of  her  time  in  the 
open  air.  Only  Sister  Genevieve  herself 
knew  what  it  was  that  was  eating  her  life 
away. 

How  could  any  one  else  know  or  realize 
the  depth  of  the  sorrow  that  filled  her 


Sister  Genevieve 

whole  being.  She  had  fought  against  it 
with  all  the  strength  of  her  will,  until 
at  last  it  had  proved  too  strong  for  her 
and  dominated  her  whole  existence. 

Night  after  night,  in  her  cold,  cheerless 
little  room,  she  would  pace  the  floor  in  an 
agony  of  restless  torture,  sometimes  fling- 
ing herself  on  her  knees  in  the  very  aban- 
donment of  grief  and  calling  to  God  to 
let  her  die.  He  must  take  her — she  could 
not  bear  it  much  longer — human  beings 
could  not  suffer  long  as  she  was  suffering. 
Then  a  feeling  of  rebellion  would  take 
possession  of  her,  and  in  her  bitter  an- 
guish she  would  cry  out  against  her  fate. 
God  had  given  her  life,  and  then  had 
cheated  her  of  it.  He  had  let  her  see  what 
happiness  could  be,  but  in  the  tasting  of 
its  first  joys  He  had  made  her  renounce 
it  forever. 

It  was  at  such  times  as  these  that  she 
would  force  her  mind  to  seek  prayer,  but, 

59 


Sister  Genevieve 

fight  even  as  she  would  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  young  being  to  think  only 
of  the  worship  of  her  God,  the  prayer  was 
but  of  her  lips,  and  she  shuddered,  afraid 
and  fearfully,  for  she  knew  that  the  image 
of  God's  crucified  Son  was  not  in  her 
heart. 

Fervently,  miserably,  pitifully,  she 
wrestled  with  her  tortured  self. 

If  He  had  only  made  her  weak,  like 
some  women,  she  might  have  been  en- 
joying that  happiness  now;  but  because 
she  had  the  strength  to  resist,  to  tear 
herself  away  in  time,  she  must  be  made 
to  suffer  like  this. 

Where  was  the  justice  of 
it? 

Ah,  if  she  could  live  over 
again  that  mad  moment, 
would  she  do  as  she  had  done 
then — would  she  send  him 
from  her,  not  because  she 
60 


Sister  Genevieve 

was  afraid  to  face  whatever  sorrow  the 
future  might  have  held  for  them  both, 
but  because  of  a  noble,  trusting  woman, 
who  had  the  right  to  love  where  she 
had  not  ?  She  might  have  placed  her  hand 
in  his  and  defied  the  world,  but  for  the 
face  of  the  other  woman. 

No — she  could  not  have  endured  that, 
and  it  was  at  such  a  thought  as  this  that 
a  peace  would  steal  over  her  and  her 
prayers  would  end  in  holier  things. 

But  sometimes  a  strong  feeling  would 
possess  her  that  she  must  see  him,  must 
find  him  and  tell  him  how  useless  it  was 
to  try  and  make  herself  believe  that  she 
could  live  without  him.  They  would  for- 
get everything  but  each  other,  they  would 
live  in  and  for  the  love  which  had  come 
to  them.  He  was  her  very  life  and  soul, 
and  for  his  kisses  and  the  warmth  of  his 
arms  she  would  renounce  the  heaven  that 
she  had  become  a  nun  to  gain. 

61 


Sister  Genevieve 

Then,  starting  up,  afraid  lest  these 
thoughts  should  shape  themselves  into 
words,  she  would  press  her  hot,  feverish 
hands  against  her  lips  and  hold  them  there 
to  keep  back  the  sacrilegious  sounds ;  and, 
creeping  back  into  her  bed,  she  would  lie 
shivering  through  the  long,  dreary  hours 
of  the  night,  until  the  sound  of  the  rising 
bell  would  make  her  realize  there  was 
another  long  day  to  live  through,  with 
nothing  to  hope  for,  or  pray  for,  but 
death. 

Sometimes,  in  the  long  hours  of  solitude 
that  she  was  allowed  to  spend  by  the 
river,  she  would  give  rein  to  her  thoughts, 
and  wonder  what  she  would  do  if  he  came 
to  her  as  he  said  he  would. 

His  last  words  had  been:  "A  day  may 
come  when  I  can  go  to  you  and  ask  you  to 
be  my  wife.  If  that  day  ever  comes,  I 
swear  solemnly  that  I  will  seek  you  and 
find  you." 

62 


Sister  Genevieve 

Suppose  that  the  day  should  come, 
would  she  be  able  to  resist  again  ?  would 
she  have  the  strength  to  send  him  from 


her  a  second  time,  and  live  up  to  the  vows 
she  had  made  to  the  Church? 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  these  thoughts 
63 


Sister  Genevieve 

that  she  did  not  hear  the  sound  of  oars 
on  the  water  break  through  the  stillness, 
and  it  was  only  when  a  boat  grated  on  the 
edge  of  the  bank  near  her  that  she  looked 
up.  With  a  cry  of  alarm  Sister  Gene- 
vieve sprang  to  her  feet,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment stood  like  a  statue,  white  and  still. 

Her  thoughts  had  taken  a  living  form, 
and  before  her  stood,  not  an  apparition, 
as  she  first  thought,  but  the  man  she 
loved  and  for  whom  she  had  buried  herself 
from  the  world,  and  for  whose  sake  her 
very  life-blood  seemed  to  be  slowly  leav- 
ing her. 

"Jean,  Jean!  Have  you  no  word  for 
me?"  He  scarcely  voiced  the  question, 
but  held  out  his  arms  imploringly. 

Sister  Genevieve 's  frail  body  trembled 
like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 

"God's  mother,  help  me!  " 

The  words  were  breathed  faintly,  in- 
articulately. She  caught  at  her  throat. 
64 


Sister  Genevieve 

The  color  of  the  trees  and  the  light  of 
the  sky  seemed  to  fade  suddenly  and  a 
mist  swam  before  her  eyes.  With  a  great 
effort  she  shrank  from  his  outstretched 
arms. 

"No,  no, — God — no!  It  is  too  late.  By 
the  oath  of  eternal  salvation  I  have  given 
my  soul  and  body  to  Him." 

Her  black-robed  figure  was  drawn  to 
its  full  height,  her  head  was  thrown  back, 
her  eyes  looked  up  into  the  vaulted  blue, 
and  her  bared  arm,  like  a  white  shaft, 
pointed  upwards.  A  gray  look  of  death 
swept  over  the  man's  features;  he  stood 
irresolute — then  sprang  forward  and 
crushed  her  to  him,  murmuring  her  name, 
the  name  she  had  not  heard  since  her 
novitiate. 

"Jean,  Jean,  my  love,  my  Jean!"  was 
all  that  the  man  could  force  his  lips  to 
say.  He  could  not  let  her  escape  him  now. 

Sister  Genevieve 's  frail,  shaking  form 

65 


Sister  Genevieve 

lay  limp  in  his  strong  arms.  "Thank 
God,"  he  whispered  close  to  her  ear, 
"you  are  in  my  arms  at  last.  So  I 
shall  hold  you,  my  darling,  until  death. 
There  can  be  no  sin  in  your  coming  to  me, 
my  beloved,  for  as  God  made  us,  it  was 
willed  that  we  should  belong  to  one  an- 
other. Why  make  a  prisoner  of  your  body 
when  your  soul  is  mine?"  "Jean,  my 
love,  speak  to  me.  What  else  matters?" 

The  voice,  passion-filled,  roused  the 
woman,  though  the  sense  of  the  words 
were  lost. 

Very  gently  he  drew  her  back  to  her 
seat.  Her  knees  trembled  so  that  she 
sank  heavily  upon  it.  Instinctively  her 
hand  sought  her  beads,  and  she  pressed 
the  cross  to  her  cold  lips,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them. 

The  man  was  scanning  eagerly  every 
feature  of  her  pale  face. 

* '  How  white  you  are,  Jean,  how  white, 

66 


Sister  Genevieve 

my  love,  but  your  eyes, — how  beautiful, 
how  gloriously  beautiful!  Your  hair  is 
hidden  from  me.  It  is  a  sacrilege  it  should 
be  so.  To  hide  its  gold  is  like  shutting  out 
the  rays  of  God's  sunshine." 

It  was  then  he  saw  the  cross,  and  with 
a  low  inarticulate  sound  he  snatched 
God's  image  from  her  sobbing  mouth. 

"Give  me  your  lips,  Jean.  You  shall 
give  them  to  me — they  are  all  I  want, 
Jean,  your  lips,  for  the  rest  of  life's  short 
hour.  After  that,  my  love — after  that— 
you  and  they  and  all  things  go  back  to 
God  again."  Holding  her  to  him,  he 
pressed  his  lips  passionately  to  hers. 

In  their  kiss  the  world  was  forgotten — 
they  had  given  themselves  to  each  other 
for  eternity. 

The  man  was  the  first  to  speak: 

4 'My  wife  is  dead,  and  I  have  sought 
you  out  and  found  you  as  I  swore  I  would. ' ' 
.    Then  followed  such  wild,  reckless  words 
67 


Sister  Genevieve 

— words  that  she,  a  cloistered  nun,  should 
never  have  listened  to;  and  yet  she  was 
powerless  to  move — she  was  as  one  dazed, 
without  even  the  strength  to  speak. 

The  man  was  telling  her  of  his  life  since 
the  time  they  had  discovered  their  love 
for  each  other — the  bitterness  of  part- 
ing when  they  had  the  courage  to  say 
good-bye.  It  was  so  pitiful,  the  suffering 
he  had  gone  through  since  then,  that 
in  listening  to  the  recital  of  it  she  forgot 
her  own — forgot  her  vows — forgot  the 
habit  she  was  wearing,  the  habit  of  one 
of  God's  children — forgot  everything  but 
the  man  beside  her,  the  man  she  had 
loved,  and — God  help  her — loved  still. 
She  placed  her  hand  tenderly  on  his : 

"Nothing  can  take  you  from  me  now," 
the  man  said,  bending  over  the  hand  that 
lay  upon  his  own. 

1  'No,"  said  the  nun,  speaking  for  the 
first  time.  Her  voice  was  tender  to  the 

68 


Sister  Genevieve 

verge  of  tears.  "It  could  not  have  gone 
on  like  this  much  longer.  I  did  not  know 
what  my  love  was  when  I  thought  I  could 
forget  it  by  burying  myself  here.  I  did 
not  know  its  strength  or  depth.  My  soul 
has  starved  with  hunger  for  you  ever  since 
I  closed  those  doors  behind  me.  I  thought 
I  could  shut  you  out.  I  wanted  to  be  as 
good  and  pure  as  the  saints  I  had  read 
about. 


Sister  Genevieve 

"  But  I  am  a  woman,  with  all  a  woman's 
power  of  loving  and  longing  to  be  loved 
in  return.  I  thought  by  starving  my 
soul  I  could  in  time  crush  out  the  love 
for  you  that  filled  it — I  did  not  under- 
stand." 

She  had  taken  his  face  between  her 
hands,  and  was  looking  deep  into  his 
eyes,  reading  there  all  the  love  that  would 
be  hers.  The  first  flush  of  color  that  had 
been  in  Sister  Genevieve's  pale  cheeks 
rested  there  now. 

When  the  evening  bell  pealed  out 
through  the  convent  stillness,  calling  the 
nuns  to  prayer,  a  boat  glided  out  from 
among  the  willows,  and  the  man  in  it 
stopped  rowing  for  a  moment  to  watch 
the  slowly  retreating  figure  on  the  bank. 
The  nun  turned  and  looked  back.  There 
was  no  sign  or  motion  on  her  part,  only 
a  look  from  the  eyes.  Then  the  trees 

closed    around    her    and    hid    her    from 
TO 


Sister  Genevieve 

sight,  and  the  man  pulled  quickly  down 
the  stream. 

Sister  Genevieve  drew  the  veil  down 
over  her  face,  as  if  to  hide  its  look  of 
guilty  happiness,  and  hastened  toward 
the  convent. 

It  was  the  vesper  hour,  and  the  chant- 
ing nuns,  like  a  procession  of  shadowy 
ghosts,  moved  noiselessly  into  the  chill 
of  the  silent,  dimly  lighted  chapel. 

When  Sister  Genevieve  joined  them, 
no  one  would  have  thought  that  this 
devout  figure,  with  bowed  head,  was  the 
one  who  but  the  moment  before  had 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  she 
loved.  The  good  Sisters  did  not  know 
that  the  sweet-faced,  saintly  nun  they 
loved  had  that  day  given  herself  back  to 
the  world,  and  would  henceforth  be  act- 
ing a  lie,  which  by  them  could  not 
be  forgiven  but  by  years  of  bitter 
atonement. 

71 


Sister  Genevieve 

While  the  low  voice  of  the  priest 
monotonously  intoned  the  service  the 
nuns  bowed  low  over  their  clasped  hands, 
and  they  seemed  lost  in  prayer — all  but 
one.  She  was  looking  straight  before  her 
with  an  expression  not  of  holy  things, 
but  as  if  her  gaze  had  penetrated  the 
thick  walls  and  rested  on  the  world  out- 
side. Sister  Genevieve's  color  had  come 
back  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  had  re- 
gained some  of  their  old  brilliancy,  but 
there  was  an  unrest  in  her  soul  which  kept 
her  in  continual  torment.  Her  vows  and 
her  duty  to  her  church  and  the  earthly 
love  in  her  heart  were  at  constant  con- 
flict. Since  yesterday  she  had  lived  as  one 
in  a  dream.  She  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  words: 

"  I  have  sought  you  out  and  found  you, 
as  I  swore  I  would." 

The  voice  of  the  priest  and  the  solemn 
service  recalled  her  wandering  thoughts. 


Sister  Genevieve 

She  looked  eagerly  around  at  the  still 
kneeling  figures,  and  her  eyes  finally 
rested  on  the  Mother  Superior.  They 


moistened,  and  a  tear  stole  down  her 
cheek  and  fell  on  the  white  guimpe.  It 
was  the  last  time  Sister  Genevieve  would 
ever  pray  with  them,  the  last  time 
she  would  ever  see  any  of  them,  and 
her  heart  throbbed  with  a  bitter  pain 
when  she  thought  of  how  these  nuns 

73 


Sister  Genevieve 

would  feel  toward  her  when  they  knew 
what  she  had  done.  They  had  been  kind 
to  her  and  she  loved  them.  But  they 
must  pity  her  when  they  knew  her  story, 
and  she  had  left  a  letter  for  the  Mother 
Superior  telling  her  everything.  Sister 
Genevieve  bowed  her  head  in  a  long 
prayer  for  forgiveness.  Her  very  soul 
seemed  shaken  with  the  fervor  of  the 
appeal. 

"I  could  not  give  him  up  this  time.  I 
had  not  the  strength.  God  forgive  me." 

The  words  echoed  through  the  silent 
chapel,  and  Sister  Genevieve  started  up 
trembling  to  find  herself  alone  in  the 
dark,  silent  House  of  God.  So  absorbed 
had  she  been  in  the  last  supplication  that 
she  had  not  seen  the  nuns  leave  the 
chapel. 

She  hurried  out  into  the  night.  For  a 
moment  she  stood  looking  at  the  old 
building;  then,  with  a  silent  good-bye  to 

74 


Sister  Genevieve 

the  Sisters,  turned  and  walked  quickly  to 
the  river.  A  man's  figure  stood  in  the 
deep  shadow  on  the  bank.  At  sight  of 
her  he  rushed  forward  with  extended 
arms,  but  she  stopped  him  with  a  gesture 
of  appeal. 

"Jean, "  he  cried,  "do  you  not  come 
to  me  freely!" 

The  woman  moved  into  his  arms. 

"Freely  I  come  to  you,  my  beloved," 
she  whispered,  "for  I  have  just  stolen 
my  soul  from  God  to  give  it  to  you." 

Folding  a  large  cloak  about  her  the 
man  led  her  to  the  boat.  Stepping  in 
after  her,  they  were  soon  out  in  the 
stream. 

Silently  Sister  Genevieve  unfastened 
the  beads  from  her  girdle,  and,  holding 
them  for  a  moment,  let  them  slip  slowly 
into  the  cold,  still  water. 


75 


JUANA    OF    THE    MISSION  DE 
LA  CONCEPCION 


JUANA  OF  THE  MISSION 
DE  LA  CONCEPCION1 


I 

a  century  and  a  half  ago,  a 
handful  of  pioneer  Franciscan 
monks  entered  into  the  wilderness  of  the 
new-found  world.  They  marked  their 
pathway  with  great  edifices  of  substantial 
white  stone  reared  with  infinite  toil  and 
labor,  interrupted  not  only  by  every 
mechanical  difficulty  and  material  want, 
but  quite  as  frequently  by  the  arrows  of 
unseen  bows  or  warning  booms  of  alarm 
bells. 

The  mason  who  builds  with  trowel  in 
one  hand  and  sword  in  the  other  builds 
strongly.  The  ecclesiastical  tendency  of 
the  makers  ot  these  missions  was  not  to 

Established  1731. 
79 


Juana  of  the 

be  checked  by  mere  bodily  danger,  and 
the  portals  and  windows  of  most  of  these 
churches  are,  even  in  their  decay,  among 


the  most  interesting  specimens  of  Spanish 
ornamentation,  rich  carving,  and  at  one 
time  brilliant  coloring  that  exist  to-day. 
Vineyards,  fruit  orchards,  and  gardens 
gradually  enclosed  their  walls.  These 
were  watered  by  the  winding  stream 

So 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

which  always  determined  the  site  of  such 
settlements.  One  or  more  belfry  towers 
capped  each  of  these  consecrated  strong- 
holds. In  that  country  of  undulating 
levels  and  unfathomable  silences  the  ex- 
cursive monk  would  have  indeed  had  to 
stray  far  not  to  hear  the  strokes  of  the 
bell  bidding  him  to  his  angelus. 

In  these  churches  these  godly  men 
preached  their  faith.  By  sheer  force  of 
will,  strenuous  efforts,  and  determined 
courage  exerted  in  behalf  of  their  religion, 
they  forced  the  Indian  to  accept  and 
kneel  to  the  Christian  God  instead  of  the 
great  Manitou. 

The  pious  fathers  who  came  in  the 
name  of  the  cross  had  no  desire  for  greed 
or  personal  aggrandizement.  Their  sacri- 
fice was  one  made  in  the  name  of  the 
Saviour  of  mankind,  to  instruct  and  en- 
lighten the  unknowing  and  unseeing. 
These  mission  citadels  became  the  seats 

6  81 


Juana  of  the 

of  power  in  New  Spain.  Through  their 
dusky  corridors  these  long-robed  silent 
rulers  walked.  In  their  hands  they  carried 
a  breviary  in  lieu  of  a  sceptre.  In  the 
cloisters  filled  with  clinging  vines  and 
fragrant  roses  they  said  their  beads. 

And  the  pathos  of  it  all  is,  that  these 
gray-robed  friars  passed  away  long  before 
the  wonderful  seeds  of  their  untiring 
labors  became  fruitful.  To-day  many  of 
their  bones  are  rotting  under  the  soil  first 
tilled  by  their  patient  hands,  and  the 
stones  and  mortar  of  the  edifices  they  so 
miraculously  put  together  on  the  wilds 
of  a  lonely  prairie  are  crumbling  into  ruin 
and  decay.  The  exquisitely  rich  and  deli- 
cate renaissance  decorations  are  worn 
away  by  the  storms  of  years,  and  headless 
figures  of  weather-beaten  saints  and 
virgins  still  repose  in  their  ornamental 
niches. 

Savage  -  looking    cactus    bushes    and 

82 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 


\ 


i/ 


feathery  ferns  grow  in  confusion  on  the 
summits  of  the  decaying  walls,  and  from 
out  the  crevices  of  the  disjointed  stones 
lizards   crawl   to  bask  in   the  luxurious 
warmth  of  the  southern  sun.    The  large 
entrances     once 
guarded  by   mas- 
sive   cedar  doors, 
beautiful  with  in-     \ 
tricately      carved 
panels,     are     now 
open       archways, 
through  which  the 
wind   sighs    sadly 
and     deeply,    like 

the  moan  of  barefoot  friars  whose 
ghostly  figures  are  doomed  to  linger  on 
at  the  old  ruins,  praying  and  weeping 
over  their  lost  glories. 

To-day  these  Missions  stand  silent  and 
deserted,  their  gray  antiquity  clothed  with 
an  atmosphere  of  fascinating  traditions 
83 


Juana  of  the 

and  thrilling  legends.  Their  crumbling, 
moss-covered  stones  are  all  we  have  left 
to  remind  us  of  the  past,  veiling  with  the 
curtain  of  obscurity  the  secrets  guarded 
so  sacredly  by  the  scarred  and  battered 
walls  of  these  voiceless  monuments,  which 
even  in  their  ruins  and  decay  awe  us  to 
silence  and  wonder  by  their  magnificence. 


II 


I  tied  my  horse  to  the  rude  wooden 
fence  enclosing  the  old  Mission  and 
passed  through  the  gate  into  the  neg- 
lected, unkempt  garden.  Everywhere  was 
silence — solitude. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  the  late  autumn. 
The  air  was  soft  and  balmy  and  filled  with 
a  bright  caressing  sunshine,  which  fell 
full  against  the  facade  of  the  old  Francis- 
can church. 

The  twin  towers  of  the  gray  old  edifice 
84 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

were  sharply  outlined  against  the  deep, 
clear  blue  of  the  Texas  sky.  While  efforts 
at  restoration  had  seamed  its  sombre  gray 
front,  and  crumbling  corners  had  been 
replaced,  yet  the  same  mantle  of  antiq- 
uity that  clothed  all  these  old  church 
strongholds  clings  to  this  one.  Cold, 
sullen,  forbidding  it  confronted  me,  re- 
sentful perhaps  that  its  glory  had  de- 
parted, but  proud  in  the  knowledge  that 
its  stone  walls  stand  a  fitting  monument 
to  the  bravery,  perseverance,  and  Chris- 
tian valor  of  its  founders. 

One  of  the  low  wooden  doors  leading 
into  the  chapel  stood  half  open.  I  entered 
the  dim,  chill  house  of  worship.  Its  at- 
mosphere breathed  of  the  dead  years. 
To-day  there  were  no  white-robed  acolytes 
to  swing  censers  of  burning  incense  at  the 
foot  of  the  altar.  Its  whitewashed  walls 
rose  unbroken  to  the  curved  roof.  To 
the  west  were  some  windows  and  through 
85 


Juana  of  the 

these  the  golden  light  of  the  sun-filled 
afternoon  penetrated  faintly.  An  occa- 
sional unframed  picture  of  a  saint  stared 
with  vacant  eyes  out  of  the  canvasses. 

A  baptismal  font  of  elaborate  work- 
manship caught  the  eye,  while  the  mind 
harked  back  to  the  time  when  its  waters 
bestowed  the  sacrament  of  holy  Church 
upon  the  offspring  of  the  savages  of  the 
wilderness. 

In  a  corner  was  a  confessional  where 
once  hidden  priests  listened  to  the 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

whispered  tale  of  sin,  and  comforted  the 
penitents  with  the  consolation  of  for- 
giveness. 

The  choir  loft  swung  above  the  en- 
trance— its  purpose  gone.  No  strain  of 
Latin  anthem  intoned  by  gray-robed 
friars  filled  the  gloom  of  the  vaulted  in- 
terior. Some  tawdry  artificial  flowers 
adorned  the  altar,  while  over  it  hung  a 
plain  wooden  crucifix. 

vSeeing  an  open  doorway  to  the  right 
of  the  altar  I  passed  through  this  and  into 
a  room  once  used  as  a  sacristy.  Its  ap- 
pearance was  more  desolate  and  bare  than 
the  chapel.  A  door  in  this  room  led  out 
into  an  open  court  or  patio,  partly  sur- 
rounded by  arches,  evidently  the  cloisters 
where  were  formerly  the  cells  of  the 
padres.  To  the  left  some  crumbling 
stone  steps  circled  upwards  in  the  thick- 
ness of  the  rocks,  to  what  at  one  time 

may  have  been  a  tower. 
87 


Juana  of  the 

I  climbed  these  carefully,  very  care- 
fully, fearful  lest  the  uncertain  footing 
might  suddenly  precipitate  me  in  the 
debris  of  loose  stones  and  cactus  bushes 
below. 

Following  the  curve  of  the  steps  I  came 
out  upon  a  flat  roofing  of  stone,  and  found 
myself  face  to  face  with  a  girl  wonder- 
fully beautiful.  Her  eyes  were  lustrous — 
black,  filled  with  a  wild  unrest — and  I 
shivered  as  I  saw  the  look  of  madness  in 
their  depths.  She  ignored  my  start  of 
surprise  and  stood  silent  and  defiant  be- 
fore me.  There  was  almost  a  daring  in- 
solence in  the  girl's  attitude.  Her  figure 
was  willowy,  slender,  and  her  long  night- 
colored  hair  fell  dishevelled  about  her 
face. 

After  watching  me  for  the  space  of  a 
few  seconds  with  the  suspicious  cunning 
of  her  kind,  she  drew  a  long,  shivering 
breath.  Her  hands  clinched  her  throat 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

in  despair;  she  sank  to  her  knees  on  the 
hard  stones,  and  throwing  out  her  arms 
gave  vent  to  a  low  heart-breaking  wail- 
ing. Her  apparent  obliviousness  to  my 
presence,  and  a  certain  fascination,  made 
me  linger  even  against  my  will. 

Suddenly  the  demented  creature  threw 
her  body  violently  forward  until  her  fore- 
head touched  the  rough  stones.  In  a  wild 
paroxysm  of  passion  she  kissed  over  and 
over  again  the  hard  stone  roof.  When  she 
raised  her  head  I  saw  a  dark  stain  where 
her  lips  had  pressed.  It  looked  the  color 
of  blood.  I  shivered  involuntarily  at  the 
thought  suggested  by  the  deep  red  spot, 
and  I  gently  retraced  my  steps  down  the 
steps,  not  daring  or  wishing  to  intrude 
longer  on  the  unhappy  girl. 

"The  Senor  has  seen  Juana?"  Out  of 
the  shadows  came  the  low  voice. 

I  was  startled.  The  meagre,  emaciated 
form  of  an  old  Mexican  woman  stood 
89 


Juana  of  the 


in  the  pathway.  She  was  brown  and 
withered  and  looked  as  ancient  as  a 
fragment  of  the  old  ruin.  A  pair  of  keen 
eyes  were  looking  into  mine. 

1  'You  speak  English?"  I  said,  my  tone 
expressing  surprise. 

"  Why  not,  Sefior?"  replied  the  woman, 
as  she  drew  her  rusty  black  shawl  closer 
about  her  head  and  shoulders.  ''I  am  paid 
to  tell  to  strangers  the  history  of  the 
church." 

"You  are  the  custo- 
dian, then?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 
"  You  should  have 
let  me  know  when  you 
came."  She  cast  a 
glance  up  at  the  tower. 
11 1  never  let  strangers 
up  there. ' '  She  pointed 
with  her  bony  finger 
toward  the  steps. 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

"Juana  is  always  there.  She  was  a 
good  girl  Juana — but  she  loved,  and  when 
a  woman  loves  it  is  always  like  that.  Did 
the  Senor  see  the  blood?" 

She  crossed  herself  as  she  asked  the 
question.  In  the  uncertain  gloom  her 
face  went  gray. 

For  the  space  of  a  second  her  lips 
moved  silently. 

Yes,  I  had  seen  the  spot.  It  was, 
then,  as  I  had  surmised,  blood.  Silence 
fell  between  us  for  a  moment. 

The  old  woman  turned  to  me  very 
slowly. 

''The  Senor  would  like  to  see  the  rest 
of  the  Mission?" 

My  zest  for  an  inspection  of  the  old  ruin 
and  a  history  of  its  past  had  consider- 
ably cooled.  The  tragedy  of  the  present 
and  the  wild,  haunting  eyes  of  the  mad 
girl  absorbed  me  unpleasantly.  The 
old  woman  had  noticed  my  abstraction. 
91 


Juana  of  the 

"The  Senor  is  wondering  about  Juana 
— is  it  not  so?"  Her  cracked  voice  was 
hard  and  without  emotion. 

"She  is  crazy,  Senor,  that  is  all.  She 
does  no  harm." 

I  looked  from  the  old  woman  out  across 
the  shallow  valley.  Southward  the  fields 
sloped  to  the  edge  of  great  pecan  and 
cotton  wood  trees  skirting  the  river.  It 
seemed  to  have  become  suddenly  very 
still — oppressively  so — you  could  have 
fancied  yourself  in  a  place  of  the  dead. 
An  utter  sense  of  loneliness  crept  over 
me.  Involuntarily  I  turned  to  the 
woman. 

"But  the  girl  is  so  young — so  very 
young.  She  has  the  look  almost  of  a 
child." 

The  wrinkled  face  of  the  old  woman 
remained  impassive. 

"She  is  young,  Senor,  it  is  true,  but 

not  too  young  to  have  loved."     Her  eyes 
92 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

sought  mine  and  I  thought  I  detected  a 
flash  of  quick  animation.  "  Juana  is  an 
Indian.  With  us  one's  loves  and  one's 
passions  come  like  the  fire  of  the  sun  on  a 
still  summer  day." 

"Is  love  then  the  cause  of  her  mis- 
fortune?" I  asked. 

"God  and  the  Virgin  know  that  it  is. 
Did  I  not  tell  the  Sefior  that  before?" 
The  old  woman  crossed  herself.  She  did 
not  speak  again  for  some  time  and  I 
thought  she  was  quite  lost  in  the  past. 
I  did  not  disturb  her  nor  question  her. 
I  did  not  wish  to  seem  curious  about  the 
poor  girl's  unhappy  condition. 

Ill 

The  shadows  lengthened  about  the 
old  ruin.  A  great  quiet  cloaked  the 
place.  It  seemed  wrapped  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  loneliness,  of  sadness,  of 
cold,  sterile  lifelessness. 

93 


Juana  of  the 

Varying  shades  of  yellow  and  brown 
tinged  the  landscape;  even  the  last  stalk 
of  corn  standing  among  its  fallen  com- 
panions had  seared  and  withered. 

A  few  field  larks  flitted  here  and  there 
among  the  fallen  debris. 

The  wind  had  begun  to  blow  up  cold. 

With  intense  vigor  I  drank  into  my 
lungs  its  fresh,  vivifying  ozone.  I  had  no 
inclination  for  the  morbid  feeling  which 
had  taken  possession  of  me. 

The  old  woman  at  my  side  felt  its 
sharpness  and  shivered  as  she  drew  her 
shawl  closer  about  her  head  and  shoulders. 

Her  eyes  were  dry  and  bright,  her 
face  drawn,  expressionless  as  a  granite 
mask. 

She  was  indeed  a  figure  who  in  age  and 
decay  was  a  fitting  guardian  for  the  an- 
cient citadel  where  on  every  side  were  the 
vanishing  traces  of  a  splendor  long  since 
forgotten.  And  the  girl  on  the  roof! 

94 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

Beneath  the  tumbling  towers  these  two, 
the  demented  creature  and  the  aged 
Mexican,  seemed  to  embody  the  stillness 
of  the  dead. 


IV 


The    toneless   voice    of    the    Mexican 
woman  took  up  the  story  again. 

"Perhaps  I  should  not  keep  Juana 
here.  They  tell  me  there 
are  places  where  they  care 
for  such,  but  she  has  been 
here  since  she  was  a  baby 
and  she  is  harmless — quite 
harmless.  It  is  her  eyes 
that  frighten  people.  Her 
eyes  have  looked  like  that 
ever  since  the  morning 
when  she  found  him  dead 
up  there." 

"Found  who  dead?"     I 


Juana  of  the 

could  not  help  but  ask  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Why,  Andres,  of  course."  The  words 
were  spoken  almost  impatiently.  It  was 
as  if  the  old  woman  resented  my  lack  of 
knowledge  of  the  tragedy. 

"She  found  him  there,  you  say?"  I 
wanted  her  to  continue. 

"Yes,  but  she  was  not  the  first  to  find 
him.  Some  strangers  like  yourself ;  a  lady 
and  her  husband  had  come  to  visit  the 
Mission.  They  had  gone  up  on  the  roof 
to  see  the  view.  It  was  allowed  them. 
Perhaps  you,  Senor,  noticed  that  the 
view  is  fine?" 

I  nodded  my  head.  The  woman  con- 
tinued : 

"I  stood  here  waiting  for  them  just 
as  I  have  for  you  to-day.  I  heard  a 
cry.  I  had  started  up  the  steps,  but 
I  could  not  move  quickly,  and  I  met 
the  Senor  and  the  lady.  His  arm  was 


Mission  de  la  Conception 

about  her  and  she  was  white  like 
death." 

"There  is  a  man  killed  up  there,"  he 
said. 

''I  went  up  to  see  for  myself.  Mother 
of  God!  I  won't  forget  the  sight.  There  he 
was,  stretched  out  on  his  face.  I  could  see 
the  blood  around  him  on  the  stones.  His 
knife  was  near  him.  Afterwards  when 
they  picked  him  up  they  found  a  flower 
in  his  hand — said  it  came  off  the  dress 
the  fair-haired  woman  had  worn  at  the 
dance.  Men  sometimes  go  mad  like  that 
for  love.  And  they  never  found  any  one 
to  take  Andres's  place  with  the  musi- 
cians. The  Americans,  it  seemed,  were 
pleased  with  his  playing."  Again  there 
was  a  long  pause. 

"  You  are  from  the  cold  land,  Senor  ?  " 

The  sad  story  of  Juana  had  passed 
quickly  from  her  mind.  Not  so  with  me. 
I  ignored  her  question. 

97 


Juana  of  the 

"And  the  fair-haired  woman  was — 
whom  did  you  say?" 

"Mother  of  God!  how  do  I  know  who 
she  was — she  was  some  stranger  like  your- 
self. She  came  to  the  dances  where 
Andres  played,  and  he  like  a  fool  loved 
her." 

I  had  angered  her.  My  story  would  be 
lost.  But  I  had  not  yet  learned  about 
Juana. 

"And  the  girl  up  there"-— I  motioned 
with  my  hand  toward 
the  steps — "she loved 
this  Andres  ?  He  was 
her  sweetheart?" 

I  ventured  the  ques- 
tion hoping  to  get  at 
the  girl's  story. 

"  Her  sweetheart  — 
Mother  of  God!  Why, 
Andres  was  her  hus- 
band!" 


Mission  de  la  Concepcion 

After  some  moments  I  felt  her  hand 
touch  my  sleeve. 

"With  your  permission,  Senor,  I  will 
show  you  what  is  left  of  the  old  wall. 
My  duty  is  to  talk  of  these  things." 

I  looked  at  her  wrinkled  brown  skin 
and  bent  body  and  thought  silently— 
discreetly.  Yes,  she  was  right — her  duty 
was  to  talk  of  the  past,  as  befitted  her 
age.  The  tragedy  of  to-day  left  her  as 
unmoved  to  its  horror  as  the  romances 
and  past  grandeur  of  the  old  stone  ruin 
she  was  guarding  failed  to  stir  her  imagi- 
nation. 

I  did  not  move,  but  looked  again  across 
the  undulating  fields.  I  must  have  shiv- 
ered slightly. 

"  It  is  better  that  we  move  out  into  the 
sunshine.  It  is  too  cold  here,  perhaps,  for 
the  Senor."  She  drew  me  forward. 

"The  old  wall  is  just  over  here,  Senor, 
if  you  will  follow." 

99 


Juana  of  the 

I  took  out  some  loose  change  from 
my  pocket. 

"I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  have  time 
to-day."  I  tried  to  speak  reassuringly. 
The  money  clinked  in  the  hollow  of  her 
sunken  palm.  A  look  of  satisfaction 
crossed  her  face  as  she  noted  the  amount. 

"Many  thanks.  The  Senor  will  come 
again  ?  He  has  seen  nothing  and  there  is 
much  of  interest,  so  they  who  visit  here 
say." 

I  did  not  answer  but  mounted  my 
horse 


The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the 
trees  that  fringed  the  river.  The  warmth 
seemed  to  have  died  out  of  everything, 
and  earth  and  sky  were  as  cold  and  life- 
less as  the  rough  stones  of  the  Mission. 

As  I  rode  back  to  the  old  town  through 
the  gathering  shadows  of  the  twilight,  I 

100 


Mission  de  la  Conception 

thought  out  of  what  small  things  are 
woven  the  great  tragedies  of  life,  and  then 
I  thought  of  the  old  woman  and  the  girl. 

The  freshened  night  wind  murmured 
with  a  vague  unrest  through  the  tops  of 
the  trees.  I  turned  in  my  saddle,  im- 
pelled by  a  fascination  peculiar,  terrible, 
morose.  The  outlines  of  the  old  church 
were  barely  distinguishable. 

Darkness  like  a  great  sombre  mantle 
of  gloom  had  settled  about  its  frowning 
gray  brow. 

I  quickened  my  horse's  gait  and  rode 
on,  trying  to  blot  out  as  best  I  could  from 
my  memory  the  vivid  haunting  picture 
of  a  girl's  eyes  filled  with  the  cunning 
look  of  madness. 


101 


THE  OLD  PRIEST  OF  SAN 
FRANCISCO  DE  LA  ESPADA 


THE  OLD  PRIEST  OF  SAN 

FRANCISCO  DE  LA 

ESPADA1 


TTHE  most  remote  of  the  several  Mis- 
sions that  cluster  around  San  An- 
tonio stands  on  the  bank  of  the  San 
Antonio  River,  nine  miles  below  the  old 
town.  Its  dedication  was  to  the  founder 
of  the  great  order  of  the  Franciscans, 
Saint  Francis  of  Assisi — Saint  Francis 
of  the  Sword.  Its  tower  is  shaped  in  the 

1  Established  1731. 

f~ 


The  Old  Priest  of 

form  of  a  sword-hilt;  its  name  Espada  is 
appropriate  to  the  conception. 

It  is  more  of  a  ruin  than  the  other  old 
churches  in  this  region,  and  perhaps  for 
this  reason  it  seems  more  solitary — more 
alone;  and  clings  more  tenaciously  to  the 
history  of  its  dead  days  by  very  reason  of 
its  isolation,  crumbling  stones,  and  pitiful 
neglect. 

It  was  in  the  convent  yard  of  this  ruin 
that  the  Texas  Army  of  Independence 
made  its  first  camping  ground.  The 
granary,  fortress  walls,  tumbled  monas- 
tery, are  relics  of  the  past.  The  brilliant 
colored  frescoes  which  once  ornamented 
the  facade  of  the  old  church,  to  the  delight 
and  awe  of  the  childlike  savages,  have 
been  dimmed  and  partially  obliterated 
by  exposure  to  the  weather  and  the  un- 
sparing hand  of  time. 

Bits  of  iron  artistically  wrought  still 
keep  their  hold  in  the  falling  stone.  A 

106 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 

doorway  of  Moorish  design  gives  entrance 
into  the  darkened  chapel.  Suspended 
from  the  centre  of  three  great  stone 
arches  that  span  its  spire,  hang  three 
bells  that  in  the  gray  dawn  and  purple 
twilight  of  earlier  days  summoned  a  sav- 
age world  to  the  worship  of  a  Christian 
God. 

To-day  these  bells  are  voiceless.  Their 
liquid  tones  no  longer  make  music  in  the 
quiet  evening.  They  are  rusting  to  de- 
struction in  fitting  keeping  with  the  age- 
touched  walls  of  the  old  ruin  which  they 
have  so  long  and  faithfully  served. 

Back  of  the  rude  sacristy,  through  a 
doorway,  was  a  garden,  enclosed  by  a 
low  stone  wall,  over  the  rough  stones  of 
which  climbed  clinging  vines.  Here  the 
world  and  its  strident  noise  was  shut  out. 
Here  oblivion  covered  one  as  a  cloud  hides 
the  face  of  the  moon. 

It  was  to  this  habitation,  filled  with 
107 


The  Old  Priest  of 

heavy  silence  and  lonely  as  the  grave, 
that  a  saint-like  man  came  to  subdue  the 
devil  in  his  flesh — to  fight  out  in  the  still 
solitude  the  temptation  of  a  memory. 

It  is  to  the  deserted  abodes  of  the  liv- 
ing that  the  weary-hearted  wend  their 
despairing  footsteps  in  search  of  their 
one  goal — death.  It  is  not  for  us,  who 
are  but  human,  to  gauge  the  strength  of 
a  temptation  or  the  depth  of  a  passion. 
For  is  not  the  sincerity  of  the  human 
soul  as  a  fleeting  shadow  caught  from 
the  face  of  the  burning  sun  by  the  out- 
spread wings  of  an  eagle  in  its  flight? 

But  it  is  not  always  the  weak  of  will 
who  voluntarily  pass  living  into  the 
sepulchre  of  the  dead. 

Father  Gilot  had  come  as  one  in  the 
night  to  the  Mission,  leaving  behind  him 
in  the  darkness  the  years  of  an  already 
spent  life,  in  which  the  suppressed  fires 
of  his  youth  left  nothing  but  ashes.  He 

ioS 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 


had  taken  up  his  rigidly  abstemious  ex- 
istence, unquestioned  and  unquestion- 
ing. In  the  silent,  unmolested  garden  of 
the  Mission,  Father  Gilot  had  found,  to 
a  certain  extent,  what  he  had  long  sought 
— oblivion. 

In  its  dark,  sheltered  corners  where 
deep  shadows  congregated,  unkissed  by 
the  glory  of  the  sun,  the  priest  at  times 
forgot  even  the  desire  of  his  soul;  for 
when  one  lives  but  to  pray  there  should 
be  no  sorrow,  no  desire.  This  partial 
peace  had  not  come  to  him 
at  once.  His  days  had  been 
filled  with  fasting  and  prayer. 

In  the  long,  quiet  nights, 
and  the  longer,  stiller  days,1 
the  gray  head  had  bowed  in 
a  mea  culpa.  In  the  years 
dead  and  gone  he  had  prayed 
so  devoutly — he  had  prayed 
so  long. 


The  Old  Priest  of 

"Make  me  forget,  O  my  Heavenly 
Father — make  me  forget." 

It  was  a  prayer  wholly  selfish.  The 
divine  fire  of  self-abnegation  for  the  good 
of  his  fellow-mortals  was  not  breathed 
ever  so  faintly  on  his  mortal  lips.  It 
was  a  prayer  for  self,  and  self  alone. 

"I  know,  O  my  Heavenly  Father,  how 
powerless  my  poor  frail  body  is  to  do 
good  to  any  human  creature,  how  in- 
capable my  reason  of  thinking  out  any 
good  for  the  brothers  of  my  race.  I  have 
no  desire  but  for  solitude  and  prayer. 
All  I  ask  is  that  my  poor  ineffectual  light 
may  be  hidden  in  loneliness  until  in  thy 
mercy  thou  seest  fit  to  take  it  from  me." 

Hour  after  hour  he  knelt  at  the  feet 
of  the  Crucified.  He  called  out  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  feeble  voice  and  the 
fervor  of  his  weakened  body  for  that 
consolation  which  his  religion  seemed 
powerless  to  give,  and  hour  after  hour  he 


no 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 

endured  that  torture  which  comes  to  one 
who  seeks  with  all  his  soul,  but  unsuc- 
cessfully, the  secret  of  renunciation. 

In  a  corner  of  the  garden,  on  a  rough 
wooden  bench,  stood  a  row  of  potted 
plants.  They  were  beginning  to  blossom, 
for  it  was  the  season  for  flowers.  Bend- 
ing over  them  with  solicitous  care  was 
the  gaunt  figure  of  the  priest.  His  rosary 
hung  at  his  waist.  On  the  end  of  the 
bench  lay  a  little  volume  of  Latin  prayers. 

Father  Gilot  was  old — so  old  that  his 
shoulders  drooped  pitifully  under  the 
weight  of  his  black  robe,  frayed  and 
worn.  His  hands  trembled  as  much  from 
long,  sterile  vigils  and  severe  fasts  as 
from  the  flight  of  advancing  years,  which 
had  touched  to  silver  his  long  thin  hair. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  a  young 
spring  day.  The  fresh  verdure  of  the 
flower-laden  air,  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the 

singing  and  mating  of  birds,  seemed  to 
in 


The  Old  Priest  of 

mock  at  him  in  his  old  age  and  loneliness. 
Suddenly  he  bent  over  the  tender  green 
in  one  of  the  pots.  A  tiny  blossom  was 
budding  forth.  It  was  the  color  of  God's 
skies  in  the  sunlight — the  color,  too,  of 
fair  women's  eyes — her  eyes — the  eyes  of 
his  heart's  desire. 

With  a  savage  impulse,  almost  cruelly 
inhuman,  Father  Gilot  dashed  the  pot 
and  plant  far  beyond  the  garden  wall. 

"It  grew  there  to  tempt  me!"  he  cried, 
wildly  throwing  out  his  arms  and  looking 
up  into  the  cloud-filled  sky.  "It  is  an 
injustice  of  the  God  to  whom  I  give  my 
life  in  prayer." 

In  a  moment  he  was  subdued,  cowed 
by  the  blasphemy  of  his  words.  He  sank 
to  his  knees  on  the  bare  stones  and  bowed 
his  head  in  abject  humiliation,  and  beat 
his  breast  for  finding  it  in  his  heart  to 
question  the  righteous  wisdom  of  his 
God. 

112 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 

For  some  time  he  prayed.  The  sun- 
light mellowed  and  its  reflected  gold 
touched  with  a  warm  caress  the  cold  gray 
walls  of  the  church.  The  priest's  solitude 
was  unexpectedly  broken.  There  was  the 
sound  of  a  woman's  light 
laugh,  followed  by  an  excla- 
mation of  surprise.  It  jarred 
on  the  quiet  evening  air — it 
struck  a  discordant  note,  in 
a  place  where  laughter  dared 
not  enter. 

After  the  first  moment  of 
surprise  Father  Gilot  rose  to 
his  feet,  the  rosary  dropping 
from  his  hands,  an  angry  flush 
burning  deep  in  each  sunken 
cheek. 

"  Woman,  how  dare  you  to  come  to 
rob  me  of  my  peace?"  The  man's  voice, 
though  raised  to  a  high  pitch,  was  as 
hollow  and  toneless  as  the  bells  hanging 


The  Old  Priest  of 

in  the  arches  of  crumbling  stone.  The 
figure  framed  in  the  doorway  of  the 
sacristy  trembled  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 
Her  delicately  featured  face  was  instantly 
suffused  with  color. 

"Oh!  I  am  so  sorry, "  she  faltered,  "so 
very  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you.  I  did 
not  know  one  should  not  come  here.  The 
door  was  open  and  we  could  find  no  one 
to  show  us  about." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  a  fair  appari- 
tion in  the  light  of  the  waning  day,  then 
turned  and  disappeared  as  quickly  as  she 
had  come,  leaving  the  atmosphere  tainted 
faintly  with  the  odor  of  a  subtle,  seductive 
perfume. 

Father  Gilot  started  forward  with  out- 
stretched hands,  a  cry  on  his  lips — 

"Helen!" 

Checking  himself  suddenly  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands  and  staggered  like 
one  drunk  with  wine. 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 

"Christ!  her  hair,  and  eyes — I  can  see 
nothing  but  her  eyes — her  eyes — always 
her  eyes.  God,  they  have  burned  into 
my  brain!" 

A  terrible  sob  broke  from  the  man's 
throat.  He  fell  shaking  to  his  knees. 
With  a  quick,  vigorous  movement  he 
threw  his  head  back  and  looked  up  into 
the  blue  vault  of  heaven.  "Is  it  per- 
mitted that  the  dead  so  mock  at  the 
living?" 

He  lifted  his  arms  in  supplication. 

"My  God,  how  long  must  this  torture 
rack  my  brain?"  Incoherent  words 
flowed  as  a  swollen  stream  flows  to  an 
outlet  in  the  sea. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  his  years  of 
silent  grief  Father  Gilot  gave  way  un- 
reservedly— unreservedly  he  bared  his 
soul. 

A  sudden  wind  had  come  back  out  of 
the  west.  Fierce  angry  clouds  obscured 


115 


The  Old  Priest  of 

the  golden  haze  of  the  setting  sun.  Great 
drops  of  rain  splashed  down  on  the  stones 
about  the  kneeling  priest.  These  in- 
creased with  the  wind  to  a  downpour. 

Father  Gilot  staggered  to  his  feet  and 
felt  his  way  to  the  door  of  the  sacristy. 
His  progress  was  arrested.  His  thin 
slippered  foot  trod  upon  something.  He 
stooped  and  in  the  uncertain  light  saw 
it  was  a  knot  of  ribbon — a  knot  of  blue 
ribbon.  "How  came  it  here?"  He 
breathed  the  words  softly  to  himself. 
He  held  the  ribbon  in  his  hands.  Dur- 
ing the  space  of  uncounted  moments, 
the  white-haired  priest  stood  immovable ; 
then  he  went  into  his  bare  little  living 
room.  At  its  threshold  he  crossed  himself ; 

"Just  this  once,  my 
Heavenly  Father — just 
this  once.  This  day 
Thou  didst  tempt  me 
too  sorely." 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 

He  entered  the  bare  little  room  with 
its  meagre  monastic  furnishings  and  took 
from  a  drawer  a  small  box.  Carefully  he 
unlocked  and  opened  it.  Inside  lay  a 
knot  of  faded  blue  ribbon.  With  a  start 
he  looked  first  at  the  ribbon  in  his  hand, 
then  at  that  in  the  box,  resting  as  he  had 
last  placed  it  in  the  years  of  his  youth. 
Suddenly  a  look  of  exultation  spread  over 
his  pale  wrinkled  face. 

"If  the  dead  can  so  come  back,  then  I 
will  find  her." 

Passion,  like  a  demon,  strong,  uncon- 
querable, took  quick  possession  of  the 
man.  He  rushed  forward  and  swung 
open  the  door.  The  rain  beat  into  his 
face  as  he  staggered  out  into  the  black 
storm-racked  night,  following  the  light 
of  a  woman's  face  and  calling  over  and 
over  again  her  name. 

"Helen!  Helen!  I  am  seeking  you — can 
you  not  hear  my  voice?  Come  back  to 
117 


The  Old  Priest  of 

me — come  back.  O  Lord,  have  mercy — 
have  mercy.  Let  her  come  back  to  me 
only  for  a  moment — only  for  a  moment. 
Let  her  come  back  so  that  I  may  touch 
with  my  living  hands  her  living  body." 
A  quick  gush  of  wind  rushed  by  and  his 
voice  was  lost  in  the  night. 


San  Francisco  de  la  Espada 

Through  the  tall  wet  grasses,  under 
the  dripping  trees,  down  by  the  rushing 
stream  he  sought  her  all  through  the  long 
wild  night, — unheedful  that  his  church- 
man's robe  was  wet,  torn  and  mud- 
stained. 

In  the  chill  of  the  dawn  he  crept  back 
into  the  dark  church  and  sank  abjectly 
at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  His  pallid  lips 
tried  to  frame  the  words  of  a  prayer,  but 
no  sound  disturbed  the  deathlike  still- 
ness inside  the  chapel.  Out  in  the  mist- 
filled  morning,  a  mad,  gay  carol  was 
pouring  from  the  throbbing  throats  of 
the  mocking-birds. 

The  violent  shivering  of  the  priest's 
frail  body  gradually  ceased.  His  face 
was  upturned  to  the  figure  of  the  suffering 
Saviour,  but  the  look  of  hope  had  faded 
from  his  eyes,  and  in  its  place  was  the 
symbol  of  the  Crucified.  When  the  day 

broke,    bright    and     clear,    a    shaft    of 
119 


The  Old  Priest 

sunlight  glancing  through  one  of  the 
chapel  windows  fell  full  on  his  white  head. 
And  though  Father  Gilot  died  wearing 
the  cassock  of  one  whose  life  was  con- 
secrated to  God,  and  with  a  prayer  in  his 
soul,  he  clasped  in  his  hand  a  knot  of  blue 
ribbon,  and  in  his  heart  was  enshrined 
the  image  of  a  woman's  face. 


120 


TOMMY  HUNTRESS 


TOMMY   HUNTRESS 


I  F  Tommy  Huntress's  eyes  had  not  been 
of  such  a  deep  brown,  or  their  expres- 
sion less  soulful,  and  if  his  hair,  with  its 
straight  white  parting,  way  over  on  the 
left  side,  had  not  been  so  jet  black,  nor 
his  cheeks  and  his  lips  so  red,  perhaps  he 
might  have  led  his  secluded  life  without 
interruption. 

I  don't  mean  by  this  de- 
scription of  Tommy  Huntress's 
personal  pulchritude  to  imply 
that  he  was  effeminate.  On  the 
contrary,  his  figure,  his  manly 
dignity,  and  his  strength  of 
character  proved  him  otherwise. 
He  stood  six  feet  two  without 
his  shoes,  his  shoulders  were 


Tommy  Huntress 

broad  and  square,  and  he  had  proved 
his  physical  prowess  at  the  Academy 
when  but  a  stripling. 

But  that  there  was  something  radical- 
ly wrong  with  Tommy  Huntress  was  a 
fact  settled  beyond  the  peradventure  of  a 
doubt  by  the  board  of  regulators  at  the 
post.  Since  his  arrival  among  them  all 
the  girls  at  the  post  had  smiled  their 
sweetest  to  no  avail.  Even  the  wiles  of 
the  married  women  had  failed  utterly. 

It  was  finally  settled  by  the  command- 
ing officer's  wife.  She  had  announced  it 
at  a  woman's  luncheon:  " Tommy  Hun- 
tress is  in  love." 

This  statement,  of  course,  occasioned 
a  coolness  on  the  part  of  the  girls  towards 
the  dignified  captain,  and  an  ardent 
attempt  on  the  part  of  the  married 
women  to  sympathize  with  him. 

The  general  verdict  among  the  men  was 

that  the  report  was  a  "  damned  slander. 
124 


Tommy  Huntress 

Because  a  man  shunned  women  and  was 
quiet  was  no  reason  to  believe  that  he 
was  in  love." 

Tommy  Huntress,  of  course,  was  not 
aware  that  he  was  the  subject  of  garrison 
gossip  and  speculation,  or  that  his  mode 
of  living  had  won  for  him  the  title  of 
"the  hermit  of  the  post,"  but  even  had 
he  known,  it  would  not  have  made  the 
slightest  difference  in  his  manner  or 
habits.  He  confided  in  no  one.  The 
sorrow  and  disappointment  of  his  life  was 
his  own  secret.  He  could  have  found  no 
consolation  in  its  telling. 

His  days  he  devoted  to  the  strict  dis- 
charge of  his  duties — his  nights  were  his 
own,  and  it  was  then  that  he  suffered 
most.  It  was  then  that  he  ceased  the 
battle  with  self — the  fight  of  the  daylight 
hours  to  beat  down  a  sorrow  that  was 
almost  unbearable.  But  in  the  solitude 
of  the  night  hours  he  allowed  this  grief 
125 


Tommy  Huntress 

to  engulf  and  absorb  him.  He  paced  the 
floor  of  his  lonely  bachelor  quarters  until 
sheer  fatigue  forced  him  to  bed.  Even 
there  his  empty  arms  reached  out  in  his 
sleep. 

One  day  Tommy  heard  a  piece  of  news 
that  caused  his  heart  to  throb  fiercely  and 
set  his  blood  all  a-tingle. 

The  commanding  officer  of  the  garrison 
had  asked  for  sick  leave  and  General 
Wilson  had  been  ordered  to  Fort  Sam 
Houston  to  fill  the  temporary  vacancy. 
This  information  was  published  in  the 
Army  and  Navy  Journal,  and  what  made 
it  of  particular  importance  and  interest 
to  Tommy  was  the  publication  in  another 
part  of  the  Journal  of  an  announcement 
of  the  engagement  of  the  new  command- 
ing officer  and  Miss  Griswold.  They  were 
to  be  married  sometime  during  the  coming 
winter. 

"  Of  course,"  added  the  kind  individual 
126 


Tommy  Huntress 

who  read  the  news  to  Tommy,  "you  have 
heard  of  Miss  Helen  Griswold;  she  is  a 
daughter  of  General  Griswold,  and  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  women  in  the  army." 

Yes,  Tommy  had  heard  of  her.  He 
left  the  man  as  quickly  as  he  could  and, 
going  to  his  quarters,  he  despatched  a 
letter  to  the  War  Department  at  Wash- 
ington asking  that  he  be  relieved  at  once. 

Like  a  caged  lion  he  paced  the  confines 
of  his  small  sitting-room. 

"God!"  he  cried,  "what  wantons  some 
respectable  women  are  at  heart.  I  '11  be 
damned  if  I  '11  serve  under  the  man  she 
is  going  to  marry." 

There  was  no  sleep  or  rest  for  Tommy 
Huntress  that  night,  nor  for  many  nights 
that  followed. 

The    hop-room  in  the   quadrangle  at 
Fort  Sam  Houston  was  beautifully  illu- 
minated with  myriads  of  soft  lights.    The 
127 


Tommy  Huntress 

walls  and  ceiling  were  hidden  by  great 
boughs  of  wild  laurel,  giving  the  effect  of 
a  woodland  scene.  Huge  banners  of  stars 
and  stripes  hung  against  the  dark  green 
foliage. 

The  Twenty-Sixth  Infantry  Band  was 
playing  the  Alamo  March,  composed  by 
their  leader,  Caesar  Torsiello.  The  officers 
in  their  spotless  white  uniforms  and  the 
girls  in  their  soft  gowns  made  a  picture 
of  gaiety  and  beauty.  It  was  Tommy 
Huntress's  initial  appearance  at  a  dance 
at  the  post.  That  he  should  be  there 
created  a  sensation. 

Tommy  had  not  come  out  of  inclination 
or  a  desire  to  be  there.  His  name  had 
been  put  down  on  the  committee  on  floor 
arrangements  and  at  the  mess  that  day, 
when  he  had  announced  that  he  was  not 
going  to  attend  the  dance,  his  brother 
officers  resented  so  furiously  his  disregard 

of  social  duties  that  Tommy  decided  that 
128 


Tommy  Huntress 

he  must  make  the  effort  this  one  time 
and  go. 

He  tried  not  to  look  bored  and  even 
made  an  effort  to  seem  pleased  at  the 
cordial  reception  given  him  by  the  army 
people.  Indeed  the  welcome  he  received 
made  him  feel  as  though  he  had  just 
returned  from  a  foreign  war. 

Tommy  Huntress  was  not  dancing.  He 
was  standing  near  the  entrance  to  the 
room,  watching  with  unseeing  eyes  the 
scene  before  him.  The  cotillion  was  just 
starting.  One  of  the  officers  stood  near 
him  and  Tommy  answered  in  a  desultory 
way  the  questions  of  the  other  man. 
Suddenly  through  the  brilliantly  lighted 
room  came  a  quick  exclamation  of 
genuine  admiration  which  caused  even 
the  indifferent  Tommy  to  turn  and  look 
at  the  object  that  called  it  forth. 

His  jaws  set  themselves  firmly  together 
and  his  breath  came  quick  and  fast.  It 
9  129 


Tommy  Huntress 

hurt  him  even  more   than  he  had  im- 
agined it  would  if  he  ever  saw  her  again. 

She  was  very  beautiful  in  her  soft, 
white,  clinging  dress  as  she  stood  framed 
in  the  doorway.  Suddenly  her  eyes,  as  if 
drawn  by  a  magnet,  turned  their  gaze 
to  those  of  Tommy. 

Even  under  the  glare  of  the  lamps  her 
face  seemed  to  grow  intensely  white.  In 
that  first  instant  of  sudden,  unexpected 
meeting  they  forgot  resentment,  and  in 
answer  to  the  starved,  hungry  look  in 
the  man's  face  the  woman  would  have 
rushed  to  him,  but  she  saw  that  as 
quickly  as  the  look  came  it  had  gone,  and 
the  man's  expression  spoke  a  curse. 

Before  either  could  realize  it,  she  was 
whisked  away  in  the  figure  of  the  dance, 
and  as  Tommy,  still  dazed,  turned  to 
leave  the  hop-room,  a  hand  was  placed 
on  his  arm  and  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
officers'  wives  was  insisting  teasingly  that 
130 


Tommy  Huntress 

he  allow  her  the  privilege  of  favoring  him. 
With  at  least  an  appearance  of  gallantry 
he  took  the  diminutive  flag  from  her  and 
for  the  first  time  in  two  years  Tommy 
Huntress  was  dancing.  At  the  sound  of 
the  leader's  whistle,  the  women  placed 
themselves  behind  a  long  screen  at  one 
end  of  the  room  and  a  row  of  hands  ap- 
peared above  its  top.  At  a  second  signal 
the  men  rushed  forward  and  took  captive 
the  dainty  hands. 

Each  unseen  maiden  was  led  forth  by 
her  unseen  captor.  The  hand  Tommy 
Huntress  held  was  small,  adorably  dainty, 
but  its  shape  and  beauty,  until  the  iden- 
tity of  its  owner  was  revealed  to  him, 
was  lost,  and  then  the  blood  turned  to 
fire  in  his  veins. 

For  the  space  of  a  second  they  stood 
looking  at  each  other,  neither  speaking. 
Then  Tommy,  still  holding  the  slender 
hand,  led  his  partner  through  the  dancers 


Tommy  Huntress 


and  out  into  the  moon-filled  night.  When 
the  two  had  reached  the  end  of  the  walk 
in  the  quadrangle  enclosure  Tommy 
spoke.  His  voice  was  unsteady  and  a 
little  harsh: 

"Why,  in  God's  name,  have  you  treated 
me  in  this  way,  Helen?" 

"Treated  you  in  what  way?"  —a  sob 
caught  her  breath  and  she  looked  at  the 
man  with  wide  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  you  loved 
me  ? "  —the  man's  voice  was  stern.  ' '  Why 
did  you  tell  me  when  I  was  suddenly 

ordered  to  the 
Philippines  that 
you  would  fol- 
low me  and 
marry  me  there? 
Why  did  you  let 
me  go  away  with 
the  memory  of 
your  kisses  still 


Tommy  Huntress 

warm  on  my  lips,  and  the  dream  of 
happiness  to  come  that  was  a  heaven — 
why,  oh,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

Tommy's  voice  broke  and  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  clinched  his  hands,  choking 
down  a  sob  that  was  well-nigh  suffocat- 
ing him.  Slowly  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  up  into  the  great  round  moon, 
which  shed  its  silver  rays  about  them. 

"God! "  —the  words  came  through  shut 
teeth — " happiness!  A  thing  as  intan- 
gible as  a  dream  that  disappears  like  a 
phantom  in  the  pathway  of  the  moon!" 
With  a  quick  gesture  he  held  out  his 
hands  to  her. 

"Why  did  you  go  back  on  every 
promise  you  made  me — why  did  you 
take  away  from  me  my  contentment  and 
make  my  life  a  hell?" 

"Captain  Huntress,  you  shall  not  talk 
to  me  like  this.  Every  word  you  have 
said  about  me  is  absolutely  untrue!" 
133 


Tommy  Huntress 

The   girl's    vehemence    surprised    even 
herself. 

"I  had  not  broken  one  promise  I  made 
to  you  until  you,  yourself,  through  your 
indifference  and  neglect,  forced 
me,  out  of  self-respect  and  what 
pride  I  had,  to  give  you  up.    I 
was  honest  with  you  when  I  said 
I  loved  you,  and  you  know  it." 
The  eyes  that  looked  up    into 
(         his  were  honest,  truthful. 

"I  went  to  the  Philippines, 
and  you  knew  that  too,  but  did 
not  make  it  convenient  to  leave 
your  regiment  and  come  to 
Manila,  where  I  had  asked  you 
to  meet  me.  You  did  not  even 
have  the  consideration  to  an- 
swer the  letter  I  sent  you  from  Manila 
begging  you  to  come  to  me." 

There  was  a  quick  exclamation  from 
the  man: 

134 


i 


Tommy  Huntress 

"You  wrote  to  me?  You  came  to 
Manila?"  The  questions  were  demanded 
in  a  tone  of  genuine  amazement.  "Helen, 
I  swear  to  you  that  I  never  knew  it  until 


now." 


The  girl  moved  nearer  to  him. 

"You  mean  to  say  you  did  not  get  my 
letters — one  telling  you  I  was  going  to 
Manila,  or  the  one  sent  you  from  there?" 

Tommy  Huntress  had  taken  the  girl  in 
his  arms  and  was  looking  down  into  her 
eyes. 

"And  you  were  true  to  me,  Helen?  It 
is  too  good  to  believe." 

With  her  soul  in  her  eyes  the  girl 
spoke: 

"You  still  love  me,  Tommy?" 

With  a  groan  he  caught  her  to  him. 

"Love  you — my  darling,  I  am  mad  for 
you.     I  want  you  every  minute  of  my 
life.     I   cannot  bear  that  another  man 
should  even  look  at  you." 
135 


Tommy  Huntress 

His  lips  were  very  near  hers,  but  he 
drew  back  quickly,  releasing  his  hold  of 
her.  His  figure  was  drawn  up  in  a  sol- 
dierly attitude,  rigid,  stiff. 

"Pardon  me  for  my  presumption — you 
are  engaged  to  General  Wilson,  our  new 
commanding  officer.  I  wish  you  all  the 
happiness  of  life.  You  will  not  be  an- 
noyed by  my  presence  here,  for  I  have 
already  asked  to  be  relieved.  Come,  we 
will  go  back  to  the  hop-room." 

"Tommy,  you  won't  leave  me  like  this, 
will  you?"  The  girl's  arms  were  held  out 
entreatingly.  "Let  me  at  least  explain  to 
you — Tommy,  please  wait  and  listen  to 
me!" 

The  man  stopped,  but  did  not  turn 
toward  her. 

The  girl  hesitated  some  moments  as  if 
searching  for  words  to  tell  her  story. 
Before  she  began  she  laid  a  hand  gently 
on  the  man's  arm. 

136 


Tommy  Huntress 

"You  know,  Tommy,  after  I  had 
written  you  those  letters  and  had  gone 
to  the  Philippines  to — to  marry  you  and 
you  did  not  even  come  to  see  me  or  write 
once,  I  tried  to  harden  my  heart  against 
you."  She  paused,  her  hand  against  her 
lips  to  keep  back  a  sob.  If  the  man  had 
looked  at  her  he  would  have  seen  the 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  tried  to  make  myself  feel,  Tommy, 
that  if  you  did  not  love  me  I  did  not  love 
you."  Both  the  girl's  hands  were  now 
clutching  the  man's  arm. 

11 1  couldn't,  Tommy,  I  couldn't.  I 
loved  you  even  when  General  Wilson 
asked  me  to  marry  him  and  I  said  I 
would/' 

With  a  quick,  impatient  gesture  the 
man  threw  off  the  girl's  hands.  She  gave 
a  little,  low  cry. 

"Ah,  Tommy,  can't  you  understand 
how  much  easier  it  is  to  do  the  things 

'27 


Tommy  Huntress 

we  are  forced  into  doing  than  to  fight 
against  them?"  There  was  a  sudden 
quickening  in  the  girl's  voice. 

''Remember,  Tommy,  my  father's  and 
General  Wilson's  friendship  dated  from 
the  war.  It  was  the  desire  of  my  father's 
heart  to  see  me  married  to  him.  With  his 
insistency,  General  Wilson's  pleading,  and 
your  indifference,  I  yielded."  There  was  a 
tremor  in  her  voice  and  tears  in  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke. 

"Do  you  blame  me  so  much,  Tommy, 
for  what  I  have  done?" 

For  some  seconds  the  man  covered  his 
eyes  with  his  hands,  then  he  took  the 
girl  again  in  his  arms. 

"You  don't  love  General  Wilson?" 
There  was  a  pathetic  little  note  in  the 
voice  that  answered  his  question: 

"I    don't    love    anybody    but    you, 
Tommy." 

The  next  moment  her  face  was  buried 
138 


Tommy  Huntress 

on  his  shoulder  and  he  was  whispering 
into  her  ear. 

"  Then  before  God  you  sha'n't  marry 
any  one  but  me."  She  drew  away  from 
him. 

"Tommy,  would  you  like  the  girl  you 
love  to  be  accused  by  a  man  of  unfaith- 
fulness— the  way  you 
have      accused      me 
to-night?" 

"Ah,  sweetheart," 
he  begged,  holding  her 
close  to  him  again, 
"don't  be  cruel  to 
me." 

"A  woman  can  be 
both  cruel  and  tender 
when  she  loves  as  I 
do,  Tommy,  and  re- 
member you  deserve 
just  a  little  harsh 
treatment  for  trust- 
ing the  mail  service 


Tommy  Huntress 

more  than  you  trusted  me — now  don't 
you,  dear?" 

Tommy's  answer  wTas  so  close  to  her 
lips  that  she  could  not  quite  make  out 
the  meaning  of  the  words.  When  he 
allowed  her  to  speak,  she  said: 

"Yes,  Tommy,  we  will  be  married  at 
once."  Then,  in  answer  to  his  protest: 

"Never  mind,  the  General  is  old,  and 
consequently  sensible."  She  took  his  face 
in  her  hands  and  looked  at  him  long  and 
searchingly — the  light  of  the  moon  was 
bright  and  clear. 

''Tommy—  a  long  pause,  filled  in 
with  ardent,  fervid  kisses— "Tommy," 
she  pleaded.  "You  are  not  going  to  take 
me  to  some  little,  out-of-the-way  post, 
are  you  ?  Fort  Sam  Houston  is  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  attractive,  and  I  want  to  stay 
hare  with  you." 

For  some  long  seconds  Tommy  silenced 

the   small  mouth,   while   the   strains   of 
140 


Tommy  Huntress 

Torseillo's  heavenly  dance  floated  out  to 
them  from  the  hop-room. 

"  Let 's  stay  here,  Tommy! "  The  voice 
was  filled  with  allurement. 

"But  don't  you  see,  my  sweetheart, 
that  we  can't?" 

"No,  I  don't  see  why  we  can't."  The 
girl  spoke  with  her  head  against  his 
shoulder.  Tommy  Huntress  for  the  sec- 
ond time  took  her  face  in  his  hands  and 
looked  down  into  her  dark  eyes. 

"My  sweetheart,  don't  you  understand 
that  if  I  could  not  serve  under  a  man 
who  was  going  to  marry  you,  I  would 
not  serve  under  a  man  whose  fiancee  I 
had  stolen?" 

"Kiss  me,"  the  girl  breathed,  her 
mouth  close  to  his. 

And  the  Texas  moon  smiled  down  upon 
them  out  of  pure  wantonness. 


141 


PHILLIPA,   THE  CHILI  QUEEN 


PHILLIPA,  THE  CHILI 
QUEEN 


A  LL  of  a  sudden  his  blood  went  hot 
"     like  fire. 

The  man's  eyes  had  for  the  space  of  a 
second  met  those  of  the  Chili  Queen. 

Phillipa's  dark  and  wonderful  orbs  had 
often  lured  and  held  men,  and  not  en- 
tirely for  the  sake  of  the  peppery  chili  con 
came  and  indigestible  enchiladas  which 
it  was  her  nightly  business  to  serve  to 
customers. 

Her  latest  victim,  Jack  Talcott,  seated 
himself  at  the 
long,  narrow  table 
and  across  its 
white-covered  sur- 
face his  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  lithe, 
graceful  figure  of 


\ 


Phillipa, 

the  Mexican  girl.  There  were  others  in  the 
small  quadrangle  formed  by  the  narrow 
tables,  who  were  just  as  busy  as  Phillipa 
— perhaps  more  so,  because  part  of 
Phillipa' s  business  was  to  be  agreeable. 
The  owners  of  the  stand  had  learned  the 
value  of  the  girl's  beauty,  and  paid  her 
extra  money  for  enticing  customers;  and 
that  is  why,  as  they  bent  over  the  pots 
of  pepper  and  garlic-seasoned  food,  they 
failed  to  notice  the  rapt,  almost  devour- 
ing gaze  the  good-looking  American  be- 
stowed upon  Phillipa. 

For  three  nights  Jack  Talcott  had  been 
cruelly  and  wantonly  careless  of  his  di- 
gestive organs.  The  effects  of  Mexican 
dishes,  if  one  fancies  them  as  an  occa- 
sional indulgence,  are  not  irremediable, 
but  as  a  night-after-night  diet  they  are 
strictly  to  be  avoided.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, altogether  physically  that  Talcott 

suffered.    Just  three  nights  had  Talcott 
146 


The  Chili  Queen 

been  in  San  Antonio,  and  these  three 
nights  he  had  spent  at  the  Chili  Queen's 
side — ever  since  that  first  evening  of  his 
arrival  from  New  York,  when  he  had 
stood  in  front  of  the  hotel,  and  been 
attracted  by  the  twinkling  lights  of  the 
Mexican  chili  stands  on  the  other  side  of 
the  plaza. 

It  was  a  warm  night  with  the  sky  black 
and  starless.  The  leaves  of  the  great 
palms  in  the  plaza  were  stirred  by  the 


Phillipa, 

soft  winds  creeping  up  from  the  southern 
sea. 

The  thermometer,  when  Talcott  left 
New  York,  registered  several  degrees  be- 
low the  freezing  point.  Snow  three  inches 
deep  covered  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
and  it  had  been  a  bleak  and  monoto- 
nous landscape  that  met  his  tired  gaze 
on  his  southern  flight.  The  contrast  of 
the  warmth  of  this  western  Texas  at- 
mosphere soothed  and  delighted  him. 
The  lights  from  the  chili  stands  gleamed 
like  fireflies  through  the  tropical  night. 

It  was  out  of  curiosity,  at  first,  that  he 
walked  over  for  a  nearer  inspection  of  the 
dark-skinned  people  serving  the  food  of 
their  country.  As  he  approached  the 
table  some  one  spoke  to  him: 

"The  Senor  wishes  tamales,  chili  con 
carne,  tortillas — there  are  some  fine  en- 
chiladas to-night.  I  made  them  my- 
self." 

148 


The  Chili  Queen 

Did  a  laugh  follow  the  words?  Tal- 
cott  thought  it  did,  for  her  head  was 
tossed  back  and  a  smile  just  parted  the 
red  lips.  Her  full,  long  throat,  a  tempta- 
tion in  itself,  was  set  off  by  a  low  bodice 
of  vivid  red.  Held  daintily  between  her 
fingers  was  a  corn-shuck  cigarro.  Under 
the  spell  of  her  eyes  the  man  felt  a  pe- 
culiar thrill. 

Again  there  was  the  same  low,  seductive 
laugh,  like  the  murmur  of  a  soft  breeze. 
Quickly  the  slender  figure  turned,  and  as 
quickly  laid  before  the  American  a  plate 
of  steaming  viands. 

"Will  the  Senor  not  sit  down?' 

Talcott  sank  into  the  indicated  chair. 
He  watched  the  small,  shapely  hands  and 
smooth  brown  arms  as  she  deftly  arranged 
the  Mexican  dishes  in  front  of  him,  but 
longer  he  watched  the  face,  with  its  rich 
red  lips  and  oval  contour,  the  hair  like 

polished  jet,  and  the  eyes,  from  which 
149 


Phillipa, 

shone  the  childlike  innocence  of  a  saint, 
belying  the  mouth,  which  was  that  of  a 
sinner. 

If  one  of  Talcott's  friends  had  suddenly 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  and  called 
him  to  time,  the  young  fellow  would  have 
seen  and  realized  the  folly  of  his  ways; 
but  he  was  in  a  far-away  country,  his 
identity  was  unknown,  the  environment 
free — easy  for  a  stranger.  And  the  Chili 
Queen  was  so  deliciously  quaint,  petite, 
and  alluring. 

So  it  went,  night  after  night  finding  the 
young  Northerner  by  the  Mexican  mu- 
chacha's  side,  until  one  evening  the  girl's 
careless  laugh  ended  suddenly,  and  her 
slender  frame  winced  as  if  the  flesh  had 
felt  a  physical  hurt. 

Each  moment,  when  not  busy  serving 

customers,  Phillipa  had  been  talking  to 

the  American.    For  the  first  time  in  her 

life   the   Chili   Queen's   heart  had   been 

150 


The  Chili  Queen 


really  touched.  Her  love  spoke  in  her 
eyes  and  Talcott  began  to  feel  potently 
its  alluring  charm.  Her  coquetry  and 
flashing  smiles  forced  the  man  to  a  more 
passionate  wooing. 

"Are  you  tired,  Phillipa,  of  this  life?" 

There  was  a  pretty  shrug  of  the  girl's 
shoulders  and  a  coy  hesitancy. 

"No — o,  meb'y  not,  Senor.  -I 

know  no  other.    Why  ? ' ' 

The  girl  leaned  across  the  table,  her 
face    close  to   his, 
and  there  was  that 

in  it  which  drove  ^^^^[ 

him  mad.  £^ 

"If  I  asked  you 
to  leave  all  this 
and  come  with  7 

me?"  He  laid  his 
hand  on  hers.  The 
girl  closed  her  eyes 
for  a  second  and 


m 


Phillipa, 

drew  in  a  long,  deep  breath.  When 
she  opened  them  it  was  not  necessary  for 
her  to  speak.  Talcott  read  in  their  depths 
his  answer  and  his  hand  closed  tighter 
about  hers. 

At  that  moment  a  sudden,  quick  look 
flashed  into  her  face.  Fleeting  though  it 
was,  to  the  two  men  who  saw  it  the  im- 
pression which  it  left  was  unpleasant. 
Quickly  Phillipa  released  her  hand  and 
drew  it  across  her  eyes.  She  laughed 
suddenly,  hysterically. 

"Como  estaSy — how  are  you,  Benito?" 

The  words  were  forced  from  between 
lips  rigid  and  drawn,  and  Talcott  noticed 
that  her  entire  body  was  shaking  as  if 
with  the  cold. 

There  was  an  answer  in  a  deep,  harsh 
voice  from  some  one  standing  close  beside 
him.  Talcott  turned  and  looked  at  the 
man.  He  met  the  steady  gaze  of  a  dark- 
skinned  Mexican  whose  whole  figure  was 
152 


The  Chili  Queen 

frightfully  thin,  and  whose  face  was 
drawn  and  cadaverous. 

Phillipa  was  called  to  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  and  with  a  vindictive  grunt  the 
Mexican  followed  her. 

"Who  is  the  gringo,  Phillipa."  He 
leered  at  the  girl  as  he  spoke.  "Same 
kind  as  the  other  American  dog?" 

For  a  moment  the  girl's  eyes  flashed. 
"Don't  you  dare  to  speak  of  him,  you 
villain — you  murderer!" 

"Phillipa,"  called  the  shrill  voice  of  an 
old  woman  bending  over  the  steaming 
pots,  "some  one  is  calling  for  you." 

The  Chili  Queen  turned,  but  she  was 
held  back  by  the  fierce  detaining  hand 
of  the  Mexican. 

"That's  right,"  he  hissed,  "murderer, 
and  whose  fault  was  it?" 

The  grip  on  the  girl's  arm  tightened; 
she  could  have  screamed  with  the  pain 

of  it. 

153 


Phillipa, 

' '  Whose  fault  was  it,  I  say  ? "  He  pulled 
her  around  so  that  she  faced  him.  His 
eyes  blazed  into  hers. 

' '  Y our 5, ' '  he  choked,  ' '  yours.  The 
penitentiary  is  nothing — five  years  of  it 
has  n't  made  me  sorry.  A  man  would  do 
murder  twice  over  and  let  his  soul  follow 
him  to  hell  for  such  as  you." 

Again  the  old  woman's  voice  called  im- 
patiently, "  Phillipa,  Phillipa,  will  you 
come  ? ' ' 

' '  Tell  her  you  will  come, ' '  the  man  said 
harshly,  but  the  frightened  girl  could  not 
speak.  "  Orita,  in  a  little  while,"  he  called 
out  to  the  woman. 

"Tell  me  you  will  send  that  man 
away,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  girl, 
"and  I  will  not  hurt  him — go  on,  be 
quick  about  it — you  will?" 

Phillipa  gasped  through  trembling  lips 
her  answer,  "Yes."  The  man  drew  a 
breath  of  relief. 

154 


The  Chili  Queen 


"Then  go  over  to  him  now  while  1 
watch  you  and  tell  him — do  you  under- 
stand, now!" 

Phillipa  nodded  her  head.  She  moved 
a  little  unsteadily.  The  gay,  happy,  care- 
less Phillipa  had  died,  as  a  flower  withers 
in  the  hot  sun. 

Benito,  the  Mexican,  took  from  his 
pocket  a  corn  shuck,  and  slowly  and  care- 
fully rolled  himself  a  cigarette.  His  cone- 
crowned  sombrero  was  pulled  well  down 
over  his  face,  but  from  under  its  wide 
brim  he  followed  the 
girl's  movements  with 
evil  eyes. 

Talcott  had  watched 
this  scene  with  a  feeling 
of  uneasiness,  and  when 
the  girl,  white  and  pant- 
ing, staggered  over  to 
him,  he  asked  sharply: 

"  Phillipa,     who     is 


Phillipa, 

that  man  and  what  right  has  he  to  treat 
you  so?" 

The  girl  answered  hurriedly: 
"Meet  me,  Senor,  at  daybreak,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Alamo.  I  will  explain 
it  all."  She  leaned  nearer  to  him,  her 
voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  "Don't  stay 
here  now,  he  is  watching  us;  you  asked 
me  to  go  with  you — I  will  go."  She 
turned  quickly  and  began  to  wait  on 
customers. 

Across  the  tables  with  their  dim  oil 
lamps  Talcott  saw  the  eyes  of  the  Mex- 
ican still  watching  him.  Though  the 
night's  proceedings  had  somewhat  awak- 
ened him  from  his  foolish  infatuation,  the 
girl's  vibrant  appeal  still  rang  in  his  ears 
as  he  stumbled  over  the  uneven  pave- 
ments of  the  narrow  streets.  It  was  two 
hours  until  daylight  and  Talcott  knew 
it  was  useless  to  go  to  his  room  at  the 

hotel — he  could  not  sleep.      When  the 
156 


The  Chili  Queen 

faint  light  of  dawn  crept  over  the  sleep- 
ing city  the  man  turned  his  steps  in  the 
direction  of  the  Alamo. 

The  people  at  the  chili  stands  were 
carefully  putting  away  their  belong- 
ings— the  business  for  the  night  was 
over. 

As  Talcott  approached  the  old  chapel 
he  saw  the  figure  of  Phillipa  enveloped 
in  her  mantilla.  The  hitherto  radiant 
Chili  Queen  appeared  humble,  subdued. 
As  he  approached  she  looked  about 
cautiously  in  the  uncertain  light,  then 
rushed  toward  him  with  an  appealing 
gesture. 

"Ah,  Sefior,  did  you  mean  what  you 
said — that  you  would  take  me  away? 
I  have  prayed  to  the  Holy  Virgin  that 
you  did." 

Her  voice  and  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 

"Tell  me  first,  Phillipa "—  Talcott 
157 


Phillipa, 

spoke  calmly—  •"  who  was  the  Mexican 
who  talked  with  you  last  night?" 

With  a  quick  movement  Phillipa  freed 
her  head  from  its  black  covering.  The 
blood  red  of  the  rose  nestling  in  her 
black  hair  stood  out  in  aggressive  con- 
trast to  the  pallor  of  her  face. 

"He  is  a  man  I  hate,  Senor,  and  he 
loves  me  and  wants  me  to  marry  him; 
but  I  will  go  with  you,  Senor,  I  will  go 
with  you,  for  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul.  " 
The  girl's  eyes  looked  the  passion  that 
filled  her  voice. 

Talcott  was  both  sorry  and  angry  for 
the  predicament  in  which  he  was  placed, 
— angry  with  himself,  sorry  for  the  girl. 

There  was  only  one  thing  for  him  to 
do, — keep  faith  with  Phillipa.  He  was 
just  about  to  speak  when  the  sound  of 
a  voice  came  abruptly  from  out  of  the 
shadows : 

"Only  part  of  that  is  true,  Senor 
158 


The  Chili  Queen 

Americano."  The  voice  was  close  to 
them.  Phillipa  gave  a  little  cry  and 
clung  to  Talcott.  The  dark  figure  of 
the  Mexican  advanced  from  the  shadows 
and  confronted  the  two. 

"  Phillipa  says  she  does  not  love  me — 
that  is  a  lie,  because  she  does.  I  killed 
one  American  because  he  came  between 
us,  and  I  am  only  just  out  of  jail  for  it. 
I  come  back  to  Phillipa  and  find  you 
here.  You  have  been  making  love  to 
her — she  has  thought  she  loved  you  and 
would  go  away  with  you.  What  she 


•*.. 


Phillipa,  the  Chili  Queen 

shall  do  is  to  come  with  me.  I  am  one 
of  her  own  race.  I  have  loved  her  long 
and  I  will  always  love  her  and  she  shall 
love  me.  You  do  not  love  her,  Senor, 
and  if  you  try  to  take  her  from  me  I 
will  kill  you  as  I  killed  the  other  gringo. 
Now  go  and  leave  us  alone."  He  held 
out  his  hand: 

"Come,  Phillipa." 

The  girl  looked  at  Talcott,  then  at  the 
Mexican.  Slowly  she  left  the  American's 
side.  The  Mexican's  power  over  her 
was  supreme.  He  took  her  trembling 
hand  in  his  and  led  her  away. 

"Adios,  Senor,"  he  called  to  Talcott, 
"Adios." 


160 


THE  RED  ROSE    OF   SAN  JOSE 


THE  RED  ROSE  OF 
SAN  JOSE1 

I 

CAR  out  across  the  undulating  prairie 
!  the  notes  of  the  angelus  fell  clear 
and  sweet  on  the  quiet  evening  air. 

A  bare-footed  Franciscan  monk  and  a 
Spanish  soldier  stopped  in  their  weary, 
halting  journey  and  reverently  crossed 
themselves.  Save  for  the  mellow  tones 
of  the  monastery  bell,  no 
sound  disturbed  the  still- 
ness of  the  declining  day. 
As  the  last  stroke  died  in 
a  faint  echo,  and  the  plains 
were  wrapped  in  silence, 
these  two,  standing  with 
bowed  heads  in  prayerful 
meditation,  were  symbolic 

1  Mission  established  1718. 


The  Red  Rose 

of  the  times  when  the  soldier  and  the 
priest  went  hand  in  hand  into  the  wilder- 
ness of  a  new-found  world,  the  one, 
patient  even  unto  martyrdom,  to  plant 
the  cross;  the  other  to  defend  it  with 
martial  valor. 

The  setting  sun  fell  full  on  the  two 
figures,  lighting  up  the  brilliant  uniform 
of  the  soldier,  and  touching  into  silver 
the  white  hair  of  the  gray-habited  friar. 
About  them  lay  the  vast  expanse  of 
prairie  land,  covered  with  tall  waving 
grass  and  gay  with  the  varying  colors 
of  the  wild  flowers.  The  breeze  blowing 
soft  across  the  plains,  was  heavy  with 
the  odor  of  spring  blossoms,  and  its 
freshness  cooled  the  hot,  dust-covered 
faces  of  the  travellers. 

Again  crossing  themselves,  the  trav- 
ellers resumed  their  journey  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  white  belfry  tower  which  rose 

above  the  tops  of  a  tall  line  of  trees, 
164 


Of  San  Jose 

crowned  with  a  gilded  cross,  now  touched 
red  by  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  The 
bent  figure  of  the  aged,  bare-footed 
friar  contrasted  strangely  with  the  youth- 
ful form  of  the  soldier,  and  the  coarse 
woollen  robe  worn  by  the  monk  looked 
poor  and  shabby  in  comparison  with 
the  martial  accoutrements  of  the  younger 
man.  A  sword  hung  in  its  glittering 
scabbard  from  the  side  of  the  soldier, 
ever  ready  to  leap  forth  in  quick  defence 
or  attack,  but  the  churchman  was  un- 
armed. His  only  weapon  was  the  one 
which  he  turned  against  himself.  Half 
hidden  in  the  folds  of  his  plain  rough 
gown  it  dangled — a  knotted  hempen  cord, 
the  scourge  with  which  he  chastised  him- 
self for  his  sins  and  transgressions,  by 
inflicting  blows  on  his  naked  shoulders. 

There  was  yet  a  good  stretch  of  country 
between   them   and   the   Mission  which 
lay  on  the  farther  side  of  the  stream, 
165 


The  Red  Rose 

and  the  young  soldier  gave  vent  to  a 
half-suppressed  sigh  of  pain  as  he  meas- 
ured the  distance  with  his  eye.     Many 
a  weary  mile  these   two    had  travelled 
since    leaving    Mexico,    although    their 
journey  had  not  been  started  together. 
Both  were  footsore  and  weary.     The 
wound  in  the  soldier's  side  had  reopened 
and  the  blood  oozing  forth  had  stained 
his  red  coat  to  a  deeper  hue,  and  where 
it  fell  to   the  ground   it   dyed  crimson 
the   delicate   pinks   and  yellows   of  the 
field    flowers.     The    soldier    was    weak 
and  faint  from  loss  of  blood  and  from 
hunger,  but  as  he  felt  the  trembling  in 
the   aged   body   under   his   arm,    which 
was  circled  about  the  stooped  shoulders 
of  the  monk,  a  feeling  of  fierce  protest 
rose   within   him,    that   he,    the   strong, 
should  be  forced  to  lean  on  the  weak, 
and  he  strove  to  lean  less  heavily  on  his 
companion. 

166 


Of  San  Jos£ 

When  they  reached  the  tall  line  of 
timber  edging  the  bank  of  the  river, 
the  monk  paused  and  allowed  the  form 
of  the  soldier  to  slip  down  gently  to  the 
bank.  He  then  removed  his  sandals, 
and  waded  out  into  the  clear,  limpid 
water  of  the  slowly  moving  current. 
While  Fray  Antonio  was  bending  over 
wetting  his  coarse  cotton  handkerchief 
in  the  water,  something  stirred  ever  so 
little  in  one  of  the  trees  near  where  the 
soldier  lay.  With  the  stealth  of  a  cat 
a  slight  brown  figure  slipped  down  from 
the  bed  of  leaves  and  moss  where  it 
had  been  concealed,  and,  edging  its  way 
noiselessly  along,  stopped  behind  the 
trunk  of  a  large  oak  and,  peering  around 
cautiously,  looked  with  wide,  wondering 
eyes  into  the  pale  fair  face  of  the  boy. 

It  was  a  girl,  slender  and  straight  as 
a  sapling,  her  skin  brown  as  the  nuts 

that  fall  in  the  autumn,  and  her  long 

167 


The  Red  Rose 

straight  hair,  which  fell  in  a  mass  about 
her  shoulders,  was  the  color  of  the 
raven's  wing. 

The  soldier's  eyes  were  closed  so  that 
she  could  not  see  their  deep  clear  blue, 
so  different  from  her  own,  which  were  as 
dark  and  mysterious  as  the  depths  of  a 
forest  at  midnight. 

It  was  only  a  short  time  that  she 
gazed,  but  in  that  time  her  breath  came 
and  went  quickly  and  a  deeper  color 
surged  up  under  her  skin  and  her  lips 
parted  in  a  half -suppressed  exclamation. 
Quickly  and  soundlessly  as  she  had 
come  the  girl  disappeared. 

Fray  Antonio  was  returning  with  the 
wet  handkerchief,  with  which  he  bathed 
the  face  and  parched  lips  of  the  soldier. 
His  tender  solicitude  for  the  wounded 
man  was  that  of  a  woman.  Looking  up 
the  length  of  the  stream  he  discovered 
a  crude  foot-bridge  made  of  a  fallen  log, 

168 


Of  San  Jose 

and  with  some  difficulty  succeeded  in 
getting  the  soldier  to  the  other  side, 
where  they  found  themselves  in  a  tangle 
of  brush.  They  had  not  gone  many 
steps  through  this  maze  of  mesquite 
and  chaparral  when  the  monk's  eye  was 
attracted  by  a  bright  patch  of  color  in 
the  grayish  thicket.  At  first  he  thought 
it  might  be  a  red  bird  and  he  expected 
to  see  it  disappear  at  his  approach,  but 
as  he  neared  it  the  flaming  speck  still 
remained  motionless.  When  he  came 


H 


I 


The  Red  Rose 

up  to  the  bush  he  was  surprised  to  find 
a  strip  of  vividly  dyed  cotton.  Taking 
the  bit  of  cloth  from  its  thorny  fastenings, 
Fray  Antonio  examined  it  carefully.  In 
those  days  signs  meant  all  things,  so 
he  slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his  robe 
and  returned  to  the  soldier.  Again  he 
assisted  the  wounded  man  forward  to- 
ward the  church.  The  brush  was  so  thick 
that  all  sight  of  the  Mission  had  been 
hidden  until  they  suddenly  found  them- 
selves on  its  outskirts  and  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  a  low  stone  wall  that 
encircled  the  grounds  of  the  monastery. 

"At  last,  my  son,  the  journey  is  over,  " 
the  monk  said,  pointing  to  the  church, 
and  turning  to  the  soldier,  he  saw  the 
look  of  wonder  and  admiration  that 
had  come  into  his  face  at  sight  of  it. 

Bathed  in  the  soft  light  of  the  fading 
day  the  fortress  church  of  San  Jose*  de 

Aguayo  rose  tall  and  stately  amid  its 
170 


Of  San  Jos6 

verdant  growth  of  orchards  and  gardens. 
Sixty  years  before,  its  foundation  stones 
had  been  laid.  Its  founder  was  the 
great  Catholic  apostle,  Fray  Don  Antonio 
Margil  de  Jesus,  who  died  before  his 
great  work  was  completed.  Fray  Anto- 
nio had  been  in  the  City  of  Mexico  at  the 
time  of  his  funeral  and  had  witnessed 
the  heart-felt  sorrow  of  the  people  at 
the  loss  of  their  beloved  leader.  Fray 
Margil  had  been  likened  to  Francis  of 
Assisi,  the  founder  of  the  Franciscan 
order.  Like  him,  they  said,  he  could 
tame  the  wild  beasts,  and  his  eloquence 
was  such  that  it  could  reach  and  soften 
the  hearts  of  the  cruelest  of  savage 
tribes. 

As  the  two  men  stood  looking  at  the 
Mission,  the  heart  of  the  monk  became 
filled  with  sadness  and  an  involuntary 
sigh  escaped  his  thin,  drawn  lips.  Though 

all    looked    serene    around    the    church 
171 


The  Red  Rose 

settlement,  how  long  would  it  remain 
so?  His  troubled  fancy  seemed  to  dis- 
cern a  cloud,  small  and  menacing,  hov- 
ering over  the  peace  and  quiet  of  these 
houses  of  God. 

It  was  almost  as  if  prophetically  he 
foresaw  the  downfall  of  these  Missions, 
built  with  the  heart's  blood  of  his  order. 
How  long  would  this  church  of  the 
wilderness  call  to  her  the  savages  of  this 
great  untamed  land  ?  How  long  would  the 
gardens  bloom  with  fragrance  and  color, 
and  the  fruit-trees  thrive  and  bear? 
Would  its  fate  be  a  repetition  of  that 
of  the  San  Saba  Mission,  which  twenty- 
two  years  before  had  been  destroyed  by 
the  savage  Comanche,  who  cruelly  put 
to  death  all  inside  its  wall?  Did  not 
such  a  fate  probably  hang  over  all  the 
Missions  ? 

"Ah!"   he  sighed.     "How  long,   how 

long?" 

172 


Of  San  Jos£ 


Then  remembering,  in  the  midst  of 
his  sad  reflections,  the  mysterious  piece 
of  blood-stained  cotton,  and  remembering 
too  that  his  companion  was  in  sore  need 
of  food  and  care,  he  started  toward  the 
main  entrance  of  the  monastery  grounds. 
When  they  entered,  the  Indians  were 
slowly  filing  out  of  the  chapel  and  filling 
the  great  plaza  to  the  right  of  the  church. 
They  stared  deliberately  at  the  two, 
and  gazed  with  wonder  in  their  eyes  as 
had  the  girl  by 


the  arroyo  at  the 
fair  soldier. 

It  was  the  hour 
for  the  evening 
meal,  and  when 
the  dust-covered 
travellers  entered 
the  refectory  the 
brothers  rose 
and,  after  the 


The  Red  Rose 

Abbot's  blessing,  greeted  them  affection- 
ately. 

The  Abbot  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Thou  hast  had  a  long  journey,  my  son, 
but  please  the  Heavenly  Father  through 
His  grace  thou  hast  come  through  it  un- 
harmed to  add  one  more  to  my  pious 
flock  of  the  wilderness/' 

"Yes,  Father,"  the  priest  answered, 
and  then,  remembering  the  piece  of  red 
cotton,  he  continued:  "The  greatest  dan- 
ger may  lurk  at  the  end  of  my  journey, 
for  I  found  this  down  by  the  river  in  the 
brush  thicket.  Its  meaning  I  know 
not,  but  it  is  stained  with  blood. "  As 
he  spoke  he  held  out  in  his  hand  the  bit 
of  cotton.  The  movement  threw  back 
the  loose  sleeve  of  his  frock,  and  while 
the  monks  started  at  its  sight  the 
Abbot  glanced  from  the  out-stretched 
hand  holding  the  fateful  omen  to  a 
deeper-dyed  rag  that  bound  the  arm  of 
174 


Of  San  Jos£ 

the  friar  below  the  elbow.  "While  the 
omen  of  the  dyed  cotton  you  have 
brought,  my  son,  bespeaks  perilous  times 
for  us,  what  meaning  has  the  one  of  the 
same  color  you  carry  on  your  arm?" 

Fray  Antonio  looked  down  quickly 
at  the  wound  referred  to.  "An  arrow 
of  an  Indian  did  this,  Father.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  this  young  soldier,  who  him- 
self received  the  wound  in  the  side  in 
my  defence,  I  would  never  have  been 
with  you  to-night. " 

A  wave  of  sympathy  swept  over  the 
assembled  monks,  and  at  the  Abbot's 
orders  the  boy  was  taken  to  one  of  the 
cells  and  tenderly  cared  for. 

The  monks  sat  down  to  their  inter- 
rupted meal  and  Fray  Antonio  was 
next  the  Abbot.  "Tell  me,  my  son," 
said  the  Abbot,  "something  of  your 
perilous  journey  to  our  resting-place." 

After  Fray  Antonio  had  refreshed 
175 


The  Red  Rose 

himself  sufficiently  with  the  meal  of 
game,  herbs,  and  fruit,  he  told  of  that 
trip  fraught  with  so  much  peril  and  dan- 
ger and  of  the  moment  when  he  had 
thought  his  journey  had  ended  eternally 
and  the  young  soldier  had  appeared  to 
save  him. 

"But  what  of  affairs  in  Spain?"  con- 
tinued the  Abbot. 

"So  long  ago  does  it  seem  to  me  since 
I  left  there  that  the  news  I  can  tell  you 
will,  I  am  afraid,  be  ancient,"  Fray 
Antonio  answered.  The  Abbot  sighed 
deeply. 

"It  is  so  seldom  that  news  of  any  kind 
reaches  us  that  yours  will  surely  be 
welcome. ' ' 

Fray  Antonio  shook  his  head  sadly— 
"Our  mother  country  Spain  is  in  con- 
flict with  France." 

The  Abbot's  brow  contracted,  and  he 
looked  out  through  the  windows  to  the 
176 


Of  San  Josd 

eastern  sky,  where  lingered  a  dull  reddish 
glow. 

"And  Mexico  writhes  under  Spanish 
rule.  How  will  it  end?"  He  spoke 
almost  as  if  to  himself. 

"And  our  Missions,  Father?"  Fray 
Antonio  asked  vehemently.  "Our  Mis- 
sions— what  will  become  of  them  ?  What 
good  will  have  been  accomplished?" 

The  Abbot  raised  his  hand  warningly. 
"Hush,  my  son.  Such  a  question  is  not 
fit.  The  salvation  of  one  unenlightened 
soul  is  with  the  toil  of  years  and  the 
sacrifice  of  the  many.  God's  word  is 
never  wasted  wherever  it  is  preached.  " 

For  a  time  there  was  silence.  Then 
Fray  Antonio  spoke. 

"Father,  tell  me  something  of  our 
Missions  and  the  work  of  our  holy  order 
here  in  the  new  world?" 

The  Abbot  raised  his  head  and  looked 
thoughtfully  at  the  priest.  "My  son, 
177 


The  Red  Rose 


the  simple  question  you  have  asked  me 

to    relate    is    history.     This    monastery 

you  are  now  in  stands  a  noble  and  fitting 

monument  to  our 

Church.     It  is  a  mira- 

^<^ 

cle.     To-morrow  you 

jig^  will    see    the    results 

\          L  of  our  labors.     There 

are  still  many  Indian 
braves  who  defy — 
even  threaten  us. 
The  piece  of  cotton 
you  brought  to  us 
tells  its  story,  but 
our  work  has  counted 
for  much  good  even 
if  it  has  been  at- 
tended with  death  and  suffering. " 

"And  now,  Father,  has  all  this  blood- 
shed and  martyrdom  effected  the  civili- 
zation of  this  great  territory?" 
The  Abbot  shook  his  head. 
178 


Of  San  Jose 

"  Things  wear  a  troubled  look,  my 
son.  While  the  order  of  our  Church 
has  in  a  measure  fulfilled  its  mission  of 
civilizing  the  Indians,  Spain  is  not  so 
successful  in  the  way  she  treats  her 
colonies." 

At  that  moment  they  were  interrupted 
by  the  sound  of  a  bell  calling  the  monks 
to  prayer.  Slowly  they  filed  into  the 
little  chapel  and  soon  their  voices  chant- 
ing the  words  of  the  evening  prayers  rose 
in  melodious  harmony. 

When  Fray  Antonio  and  the  wounded 
soldier  quitted  the  brush  thicket  there 
were  two  that  followed  close  on  their 
tracks,  but  each  unaware  of  the  other's 
presence. 

One  was  the  girl  whose  eyes  had 
marvelled  at  the  pale  soldier;  the  other 
a  tall,  sinewy  Indian,  with  keen  scenting 

nostrils  and  an  eye  like  that  of  an  eagle. 
179 


The  Red  Rose 

He  was  Tichimingo,  son  of  a  chief  of 
the  Comanches.  He  had  sworn  a  mighty 
oath  to  the  great  Manitou  that  no  gray- 
robed,  pale-faced  priest  should  ever  force 
him  to  kneel  before  the  image  of  another 
god,  and  that  in  time  he  would  drive 
out  the  strangers  who  had  come  myste- 
riously in  the  night  from  an  unknown 
land  and  had  built  their  houses  of 
worship  in  the  garden  of  his  wilderness. 

It  was  he  who  had  placed  the  dyed 
cotton  on  the  thorny  bush.  It  was  he 
who  had  aroused  the  errant  members 
of  his  tribe  to  join  with  him  in  the 
destruction  of  the  Missions.  But  he 
would  give  the  monks  warning — ample 
warning. 

The  moon  hung  now  in  crescent. 
When  its  corners  turned  again  in  the 
sky-world,  then  it  would  be  time.  All 
of  a  sudden,  as  he  stood  there  in  the 
light,  the  gleam  of  hate  died  out  in  the 

iSo 


Of  San  Jos<§ 

Indian's  eyes, — one  of  equal  fierceness 
burned  there  instead. 

He  slipped  quickly  through  the  brush. 
He  was  almost  upon  the  girl,  when  she 
turned,  startled,  then  fled  like  a  frightened 
deer  before  him. 

1  'Run  not  so  fast,  Wild  Dove  of  the 
Woods,"  he  called  after  her  in  the 
language  of  his  race.  "What  Tichi- 
mingo  desires  he  pursues,  and  what  he 
pursues  he  catches,  and  Tichimingo 
desires  thee. " 

He  laughed  triumphantly  as  he  fol- 
lowed hot  upon  her  trail. 

II 

Now  when  Fray  Antonio  had  helped 
up  the  soldier  from  the  ground,  some- 
thing bright  and  shining  fell  unnoticed 
from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  unfastened 
jacket. 

That    night     when    the    moonbeams 

181 


The  Red  Rose 

played  and  danced  with  the  shadows 
under  the  trees  the  rays  fell  on  the  little 
gold  ornament. 

There  were  other  eyes  in  the  woods 
that  night  as  keen  as  those  of  its  animal 
inhabitants,  and  when  these  eyes  spied 
the  glittering  object,  two  little  brown 
hands  closed  over  it  and  hid  it  away. 

From  that  day  Paoli  spent  her  time 
in  the  woods  near  the  Mission.  Never 
before  had  her  wild  little  spirit  been 
filled  with  such  restlessness.  She  hid 
in  the  branches  of  the  trees.  She  fol- 
lowed every  sound  in  the  brush,  every 
whisper  of  the  wind. 

With  each  day  this  restlessness  grew 
more  fierce,  and  the  desire  to  look  again 
upon  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  stranger 
became  more  urgent,  more  impelling. 
She  knew  that  when  he  got  well  enough 
he  would  come,  for  did  not  the  gold 

trinket    she    always    carried    with    her 

182 


Of  San  Jos£ 


belong  to  him  and  would  he  not  want 
to  look  for  it?  That  he  had  been  very 
ill  Paoli  learned  from  the  Indians  at 
the  Mission. 

She  decked  herself  in  all  her  finery  of 
gay  beads  and  feathers  so  that  when  he 
should  come,  if  she  chose  to  let  him  see 
her  he  would  find  her  not  unpleasing. 

She  had  not  decided  whether  she 
would  herself  hand  him  the  trinket 
then  or  lay  it  on  the  ground  where  he 
could  find  it.  For  six  days  she  waited 
and  he  did  not  come.  For 
six  days  she  watched,  but 
her  vigil  was  unrewarded. 
There  was  one,  however, 
she  did  see.  It  was  Tichi- 
mingo.  When  he  was  not 
hunting  his  game  he  was 
hunting  her. 

"Little  Wild  Dove  of  the 
Wood,'*  he   would   say  to 


The  Red  Rose 

her,  "  before  many  moons  you  will 
flutter  into  the  arms  of  Tichimingo 
and  there  you  will  find  shelter  and 
protection. " 

When  Paoli  shook  her  head  and  looked 
at  him  angrily  out  of  her  great  dark 
eyes,  he  would  only  laugh  the  louder. 

"You  will  love  me,  little  Paoli.  You 
will  love  me  much.  It  is  always  so 
with  the  things  that  fight  the  bravest 
against  capture.  But  Tichimingo  can 
wait.  There  is  first  something  he  must 
do,  something  he  has  sworn  to  do,  and 
after  that"  —he  held  out  his  arms  and 
moved  nearer  Paoli;  but  the  girl  was 
gone  and  only  the  crackling  of  the 
dried  twigs  told  which  path  she  had 
taken. 

One  day,  when  noon  lay  hot  on  the 
unsheltered  prairies,  Paoli  curled  herself 
in  a  cool  shadow  under  a  moss-covered 

oak  and  fell  asleep. 

184 


Of  San  Jos£ 

When  she  awoke  it  was  not  Tichimingo 
that  was  leaning  close  over  her  with  a 
hungry  light  in  his  fierce  eyes, — it  was 
the  boy  soldier. 

With  the  grace  and  quickness  of  a 
startled  animal  Paoli  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  for  a  second  made  as  if  to  run;  then 
she  slipped  her  hand  under  her  tunic 
and  drew  out  the  gold  locket  and  held  it 
out  to  the  man. 

With  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
delight  he  took  it  from  her,  examined 
it  a  moment,  pressed  something,  and  it 
opened  like  a  book  and  he  put  it  to  his 
lips  and  held  it  there  a  moment. 

Paoli  stood  gazing  in  astonishment. 
She  had  often  looked  at  and  handled 
the  little  flat  gold  ornament,  but  it  had 
never  opened  for  her.  Why  did  he 
kiss  it,  she  wondered.  It  must  be  a 
relic  from  the  church,  she  thought. 
He  slipped  it  back  into  the  pocket  of 
185 


The  Red  Rose 

his  coat.  "Thank  you,"  he  said  to  the 
girl  in  Spanish. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  lost  it  far  from 
here,  at  the  time  the  arrow  struck  me 
and  Fray  Antonio  unfastened  my  coat. " 

Speaking  of  this  made  him  think  of 
the  Indian  who  had  shot  that  arrow, 
and  he  looked  at  the  girl  with  a  new 
light  in  his  blue  eyes.  She  noted  it  at 
once. 

"So  it  was  one  of  my  people  who 
wounded  you?" 

Paoli's  Spanish  was  very  bad,  but  it 
could  be  understood. 

"Yes,  I  have  one  of  them  to  thank 
for  that,"  he  said  reflectively. 

"And  what  have  we  got  to  thank 
your  people  for?"  she  flashed  back  at 
him  quickly.  "I  hate  your  pale-faced 
fathers  in  the  Mission"-  —her  eyes  snapped 
with  anger.  "They  want  to  make  one 
work,  work  all  the  time  with  no  play, 

1 86 


Of  San  Jos£ 

and  they  are  making  women  of  our 
braves."  There  was  deep  scorn  in  her 
voice.  "But  there  is  one  they  cannot 
bend  to  their  ways. ' ' 

Paoli  smiled  triumphantly,  and  had 
Tichimingo  seen  it  and  known  she  had 
spoken  in  defence  of  him,  his  heart  would 
have  warmed  happily  under  her  praise. 

The  soldier  was  looking  at  the  girl 
with  wonder  and  admiration. 

"I  am  too  weak  to  stand  long,"  he 
said.  "Will  you  sit  and  talk  with  me 
a  little?" 

This  daughter  of  the  Comanche  was 
very  beautiful  and  the  man  felt  loath  to 
let  her  go. 

They  seated  themselves  on  the  soft 
moss-covered  earth. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Paoli,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  added  inter- 
est—"Wild  Dove  of  the  Woods. " 
187 


The  Red  Rose 

"How  did  you  know?"  And  she 
turned  her  great  fawn-like  eyes  full 
upon  him. 

''I  have  heard  them  speak  of  you  at 
the  Mission,"  he  answered.  "But  they 
seem  to  think  you  are  far  away  from 
here." 

"It  is  well  they  think  so,"  the  girl 
said  with  a  little  savage  tone  in  her 
voice. 

"Why?"  asked  the  man. 

"They  were  not  good  to  me,"  and 
the  look  of  hate — the  hate  an  Indian 
can  alone  feel — still  marred  her  pretty 
face. 

"What  did  they  do  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"They  gave  me  a  penance  that  I  could 
not  perform. ' '  The  little  lips  set  them- 
selves together. 

"And  it  was  for  this  that  you  refused 
to  go  again  to  the  Mission  church  and 
went  back  to  the  tribe?" 

1 88 


Of  San  Jos£ 

"Yes — was  I  not  right?"  she  asked 
vehemently.  "They  wanted  to  take 
away  my  hours  of  recreation  and  not  let 
me  go  to  the  woods.  Why,  they  even 
locked  me  in,  but  they  could  not  keep 
me  that  way.  One  morning  they  found 
me  gone.  I  have  never  been  inside  the 
Mission  since." 

"Then  why  are  you  here  now?"  the 
man  asked  suspiciously. 

The  Indian  girl's  eyes  dilated  and  she 
took  a  deep  breath  through  her  slender 
nostrils,  and  her  voice  sank  to  a  lower 
note. 

"Because  I  wanted  to  be  near  where 
I  could  smell  again  the  incense  they 
burn  in  the  chapel,  and  because  I  wanted 
to  look  once  more  on  the  beautiful 
image  of  the  Virgin  dressed  in  silk  and 
jewels  that  stands  on  the  altar.  I 
thought  perhaps  some  night  when  they 

were  all  asleep  in  the  Mission  I  could  go 
189 


The  Red  Rose 

to    the    chapel     without     their     seeing 


me.' 


In  this  speech  Paoli  had  divulged  the 
secret  of  the  influence  of  the  father 
over  the  Indian. 

"What  is  your  name?"  the  girl  asked 
suddenly. 

"Juan  Delgado  is  my  name,"  he  said. 

* '  You  are  a  soldier  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  of  Spain." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  from  under 
her  heavy  lashes. 

"Why  did  you  come?" 

"I  am  going  to  San  Antonio  to  join 
my  company,"  he  answered. 

"Soon?" 

"I  cannot  tell.  When  my  wound  is 
healed.  The  fathers  will  not  let  me 
leave  sooner. ' ' 

The  bell  of  the  Mission  clanged  out 
the  hour  of  the  mid-day  meal,  and  the 

man  arose. 

190 


Of  San  Jos£ 

"Are  you  in  the  woods  often?"  he 
asked. 

"Almost  all  the  time.  " 

"Will  you  be  here  to-morrow  at 
the  noon  hour  ? ' '  The  girl  did  not  speak. 

The  man  repeated  his  question.  Finally 
she  answered: 

' '  I  cannot  tell ' '  —she  had  the  suspicion 
of  her  race. 

"If.  I  come  will  you  be  here?"  he 
asked  persuasively.  And  again  Paoli 
answered : 

"  I  cannot  tell. " 

"But  I  will  come  anyway,"  the  man 
said,  "and  if  you  are  not  here  I  shall  be 
disappointed." 

This  time  Paoli  said  nothing,  but 
stood  looking  at  him  with  an  expression 
in  her  eyes  which  was  difficult  to  under- 
stand. 

The  soldier  turned  and  walked  back 

to  the  Mission. 

191 


The  Red  Rose 

III 

Juan  Delgado  was  in  the  woods  at  the 
noon  hour  the  next  day  and  many  days 
following.  Paoli  was  there  too.  They 
talked  long  together.  The  girl  told  him 
of  the  habits  and  customs  of  her  tribe, 
and  all  the  while  he  watched  her  with  a 
growing  interest. 

He  delighted  to  look  at  the  changing 
expressions  in  the  brown  mobile  face- 
to  search  to  their  depths  the  great  dark 
eyes.  He  loved  to  watch  the  sun  lose 
itself  in  the  shadows  of  the  black,  lus- 
trous hair.  It  thrilled  him  to  note  the 
soft,  graceful  undulations  of  the  lithe, 
slender  body  untrammelled  in  its  loose 
free  dress.  The  little  feet  in  the  beaded 
moccasins  he  longed  to  take  and  press 
tightly  in  the  palms  of  his  hands.  His 
Castilian  blood  ran  hot  and  this  Indian 
girl  had  stirred  it  into  fire. 

IQ2 


Of  San  Jose 

One  day  when  they  had  been  talking 
together  Juan  said  something  which 
angered  the  girl.  It  was  an  allusion  to 
her  race.  Quick  as  a  flash  she  had 
risen  and  left  him.  He  called  after  her 
many  times,  but  Paoli  did  not  come  back. 

The  following  day  he  came  as  usual, 
and  a  look  of  glad  surprise  flashed  into 
his  face  at  sight  of  her  standing  waiting 
for  him. 

"See  what  I  have  brought  you,  Paoli, 
from  the  Mission  garden." 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  red 
rose.  "  It  is  my  peace  offer- 
ing, little  Wild  Dove  of  the 
Woods. ' '  Her  eyes  lighted 
with  pleasure. 

"It  came  from  the  great 
bush  in  the  corner  of  the 
garden,"  she  said.  "The 
Indians  call  it  the  Rose  of 
San  Jose." 


The  Red  Rose 

He  fastened  the  rose  in  one  of  the 
black  braids  just  back  of  the  little  shell- 
like  ear.  In  doing  so  his  hand  brushed 
very  near  the  smooth  round  cheek,  and 
Juan  Delgado  found  himself  fighting 
against  a  temptation  that  with  each 
day  grew  more  difficult  of  control. 

"I  shall  keep  it  always — always," 
the  girl  said  softly,  putting  up  her  hand 
and  touching  gently  the  fresh  petals. 
"Unless,"  she  added,  looking  up  at 
him  thoughtfully,  "unless  it  ever  hap- 
pens I  should  have  to  send  you  a  peace 
offering.  If  I  did  I  would  return  to 
you  the  rose."  Her  eyes  filled  with  a 
warm  tenderness.  "It  would  be  a  sad 
and  faded  little  rose,  but  it  would  be 
like  my  heart  if — if  I  ever  hurt  you." 

Juan  Delgado  took  both  her  little 
brown  hands  in  his.  A  wave  of  color 
swept  over  Paoli's  face  and  neck.  She 
was  looking  down  at  the  ground. 

IQ4 


Of  San  Jos6 

"Look  at  me,  Paoli. "  She  raised  her 
head  slowly  and  looked  at  him.  Juan 
Delgado  started  at  what  he  saw  written 
in  the  girl's  face;  his  heart  beat  wildly, 
but  he  released  her  hands  and  turned 
away. 

They  were  silent  for  some  time.  It 
was  then  that  there  was  a  noise  ever  so 
slight  in  the  bush.  The  man  did  not 
even  hear  it,  but  the  girl's  quick  trained 
ear  detected  it  in  an  instant  and  she 
thought  of  Tichimingo. 


IV 


Heretofore  it  was  only  in  the  late 
evening  and  the  night-time  that  he  came, 
but  then  Tichimingo  was  cunning  and 
one  could  not  tell  when  he  would  come 
or  go. 

When  Juan  Delgado  left  her,  Paoli 
searched  through  the  woods  along  the 

IQ5 


The  Red  Rose 

stream  for  Tichimingo.  She  wanted  to 
make  sure. 

She  had  almost  given  up  the  search 
when  suddenly  she  came  close  upon  him, 
bending  over  something  on  the  ground. 
She  stood  hardly  daring  to  breathe,  and 
watched.  She  saw  the  Indian  unsheath 
his  knife  and  cut  close  to  the  heart  of  a 
young  lynx  he  had  taken  from  his  pack 
of  game.  As  the  fresh  blood  spurted 
out  of  the  wound  he  took  a  piece  of 
cotton  cloth  and  dipped  it  into  the  red 
fluid  so  that  it  took  the  color,  and  then 
he  fastened  it  to  a  thorn  bush. 

At  sight  of  this  a  great  fear  stole  over 
Paoli  and  she  understood  for  the  first 
time  the  meaning  of  his  words  to  her 
that  day, — when  he  had  said  there  was 
something  he  had  sworn  to  do. 

The  next  moment  she  was  by  his 
side.  It  was  savage  facing  savage  and 

the  look  in  their  eyes  was  not  good  to 
196 


Of  San  Jose 

see.  At  his  first  sight  of  her  the  girl 
knew  that  she  had  not  been  mistaken 
in  the  sound  in  the  bush — and  she  had 
not,  for  Tichimingo  had  crawled  like  a 
snake  on  the  ground,  dragging  his  brown 
body  through  the  grass  and  underbrush 
until  he  had  come  quite  close  to  the  man 
and  the  girl.  He  had  not  understood 
the  language  of  their  lips,  but  an  Indian 
reads  things  by  signs  and  all  the  venom 
and  hatred  of  his  race  rose  at  sight  of 
these  two  together. 

It  is  very  probable  that  then  and  there 
he  would  have  killed  the  soldier,  but  in 
two  days'  time  a  sweet  revenge  would 
come  to  him.  When  the  Mission  was 
taken,  the  torture  he  had  planned  for 
its  inmates  would  include  the  soldier 
as  well. 

"It  is  the  Mission  you  are  going 
to  destroy  and  the  padres?"  Paoli 
said,  through  her  little  white  teeth. 
197 


The  Red  Rose 

Tichimingo  grunted  sullenly  and  nodded. 

''When?"  the  girl  asked,  and  her 
little  brown  face  went  white  of  a  sudden. 
It  is  the  Indian's  nature  to  answer  when 
and  as  he  pleases.  But  the  Indian  in 
the  girl  forced  from  the  man  a  response. 

"When  the  moon  hangs  in  its  first 
quarter. ' ' 

"Two  days  more,  "  the  girl  said  slowly, 
as  though  the  words  hurt  her. 

"And  the  soldier  will  be  left  for  me 
to  kill." 

Tichimingo  made  a  step  toward  the 
girl  and  grunted  so  fiendishly  that  even 
she,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  the 
cruelty  of  her  people,  shrank  away  from 
him. 

"I  saw  him  look  into  your  eyes  to-day 
in  a  way  no  man  shall  ever  look  at  you 
and  live — and  you,  who  are  to  belong  to 
me,  answered  that  look." 

Paoli  raised  her  head  and  stared  at 
198 


Of  San  Jose 

him  a  moment  in  defiance.  She  would 
have  said  something,  but  the  man  sprang 
at  her  viciously,  the  knife  with  which 
he  had  stabbed  the  wildcat  still  clasped 
in  his  hand,  and  the  girl  turned  and  ran 
from  him. 

Even  so  Tichimingo  would  have  over- 
taken her,  but  his  foot  caught  in  the 
root  of  a  shrub  and  he  fell.  Only  a 
second  was  he  delayed,  but  it  was  enough 
for  the  girl  to  escape  beyond  his  reach, 
and  the  nearest  he  got  to  her  that  night 
was  to  hear  the  echo  of  a  wood  dove's 
cry,  the  sound  of  which  lashed  him  to 
a  fury. 

V 

"How  soon  will  your  wound  be 
healed?"  Paoli  asked  with  terror  and 
anxiety  in  her  voice,  that  she  could  not 
control.  She  leaned  anxiously  toward 

Juan  Delgado,    waiting  for  his  answer. 
199 


The  Red  Ro 

Short,  a  i  i  he  time  \v;is,  in  her  great  im- 
patience it  scenic.  1  too  long  iii  coming, 

"Will  it.  !><•  before  before  the  next 
new  ni«  on?11  She  Leaned  closer  still. 
The  man  looked  at  her  surprised. 

"  When    is    the    time    for    the    next   new 

moon?"     IK>  answered,   failing  to  com- 
prehend    the     reason     I'-M-     her     anxiety, 

"and  what  has  that  eot  to  do  with  my 

goini'.  away?" 

"I  only  wanted  to  know  how  much 
longer  you  would  be  here,"  she  s;iid, 

smiling    SO    as    to    dis;irm     his    pn»l>al»le 

picion,     An  indi;m  always  KailKrs  bhe 

len;.',lh     of     time     1  >y     the     moon.      "You 
kn«»w    the   new    moon    will    he    in    i: 

luarter  in  two  days.'* 
"Yes,  1  will  he  here  until  after  that, 

1   will  he  here  until  ;i  d;ini;er  lh;it   thrift  - 
the   Mission   is  pnssi'd,    Pnoli,  and   W6 

will  see  each  other  ever\    day,   will  we 
not,  Wild  Dove  of  the  Woo 
no 


Of  San  Jose 

The  girl  did  not  .'uiswer,  but  gave  a 
litlle  g  if  in  p.'iin,  and  :;;iid  some- 

thing the  ;  -uld  not  und<T  ,1;md. 

Suddenly  she  leaned  over  .'ind  placed 
IHT  hand  on  hi  ;  arm,  "You  must  go 

fn;ni    i,lic    Mission,"    she    said.     "You 
must   go   before   two    days,    h<  i,he 

moo  first  quarter." 

"Why?"  the  man  asked  in  real  alarm. 

"The  danger  that  threaten  ili<  Mi  ,ion 
draws  near,"  the  girl  said  excitedly. 
"When  it  comes  you  must  not  be  there." 

"It.  duty  to  be  there,  Paoli — a 

soldier   never   run:;   from  danger."      Hut 
the  girl  clasped  IKT  little  hands  toget' 
in  a  gesture  of  agony. 

"It,  would  kill  me  to  have  anything 
happen  to  you." 

That  niVht    Paoli  ht  Tichimin.^o. 

;:  ullen   -Mid   savage  and  it  was  a 

a  long  time   before   he   would  listen  or 


The  Red  Rose 

speak  to  her.  But  he  loved  her,  and 
Paoli  was  a  woman  that  a  man  who 
was  not  her  lover  could  not  set  aside. 

"Tichimingo, "  she  said  to  him  softly, 
and  she  looked  up  into  his  face  in  a  way 
he  had  never  seen  her  look  before.  It 
set  his  blood  on  fire. 

"Tichimingo,  if  I  promise  to  marry 
you  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  moon 
will  you  leave  the  Mission  and  the 
fathers  in  peace?" 

He  grunted,  but  it  was  a  weak  and 
un-Indian-like  grunt,  and  his  eyes  showed 
how  strong  was  the  temptation.  She 
repeated  the  request,  and  as  she  did  so 
her  soft  young  body  crept  nearer  until 
he  could  feel  the  warm  life  of  it  next  his 
own.  His  mask  of  Indian  savagery  fell 
from  his  face  and  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  a  human  passion,  intense  and 
entreating. 

"In  the  first  quarter  of  the  moon,  you 


202 


Of  San  Jose 

said,  little  Wild  Dove  of  the  Woods? 
Then  the  Mission  shall  stand  and  the 
fathers  go  unharmed." 

That  night  Paoli  did  not  fly  before 
Tichimingo.  When  he  purused  she  waited. 
In  the  darkness  that  conies  before  the 
dawn  they  turned  their  faces  from  the 
Mission  toward  the  haunts  of  their  tribe. 

In  the  face  of  Tichimingo  the  brave 
there  shone  a  look  of  triumph  such  as 
had  never  before  been  there,  but  the 
Wild  Dove  of  the  Woods  walked  deject- 
edly. Her  little  wings  and  her  heart  were 
broken. 

That  evening  when  Fray  Antonio  went 
down  to  the  stream  he  looked  anxiously 
into  the  thicket.  As  usual  there  was 
something  red  attached  to  the  bush. 
He  went  up  to  it. 

"Ave  Maria!     Mother  of  God!"    The 
203 


The  Red  Rose 

exclamation  burst  from  his  lips.  What 
did  this  signify?  He  hurried  back  to 
the  Mission  and  into  the  presence  of 
the  Abbot  and  brothers  gathered  for 
the  evening  meal.  The  anxious  monks 
gathered  around  him. 

"The    signal,    Fray    Antonio,"    they 
cried  in  chorus. 

"It    is    here."     And    Fray    Antonio 
held  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  a  red  rose— 
a  Rose  of  San  Jose. 
It   lay   withered   and 
limp. 

Juan  Delgado,  who 
was  with  the  monks, 
started  and  turned 
pale.  Something 
tightened  about  his 
heart  and  choked  in 
his  throat.  He  took 
the  rose  from  the 
monk's  hand. 


Of  San  Josd 

"It  is  all  well  for  the  Mission.  The 
signal  is  one  of  peace.  " 

The  monks  looked  at  him  suspiciously 
and  wonderingly.  He  answered  the  ques- 
tion in  their  eyes. 

"The  Indian  girl  Paoli,  the  one  they 
call  Wild  Dove  of  the  Woods,  whom  I 
met,  told  me  if  it  was  to  be  peace  the 
offering  would  be  a  rose — a  red  rose — 
a  Rose  of  San  Jose\  " 

He  looked  at  the  withered,  faded 
little  flower.  Only  he  understood  that 
its  meaning  was  a  sad  heart  as  well. 


THE    END. 


205 


Jt  Stirring  and   Captivating  Story 

THE  GIRL  OF 
LA  GLORIA 

By 
CLARA  DRISCOLL 

With  Illustrations  in  Color  by 
HUGH  DITZLER 

I2mo.     $1.50 

A  charming  love-story  of  Texas.  The  heroine, 
Ilaria,  is  the  last  of  an  old  Mexican  family,  who 
have  gradually  been  dispossessed  of  all  their 
lands  by  the  grasping  Americanos.  A  young 
man  from  New  York  falls  in  love  with  this  beau- 
tiful descendant  of  the  early  Spanish  conquerors. 
There  are  fascinating  descriptions  of  the  rough, 
romantic  life  of  the  plains,  when  men  were  quick 
with  their  love  and  quicker  with  their  hate. 
The  story  moves  rapidly,  with  strong,  thrilling 
scenes,  and  the  reader's  interest  is  held  to  the 
dramatic  close. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK.  LONDON 


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At  the  Sign  of 
The  Jack  o'  Lantern 


By  MYRTLE  REED 

Author  of  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace,"  "The  Master's  Violin,"  etc. 


Uniform  with  "Lavender  and  Old  Lace** 

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A  genial  story  of  the  adventures  of  a  New 
York  newspaper  man  and  his  young  wife,  who, 
at  the  end  of  their  honeymoon,  go  to  an  unex- 
plored heirloom  in  the  shape  of  a  peculiar  old 
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A  vein  of  delicate  humor,  and  a  homely  philos- 
ophy runs  through  the  story. 

A  complete  descriptive  circular  of  Miss  Reed's 
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New  York  —  Q.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS  —  London 


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The 

Scarlet  Pimpernel 

By  Baroness  Orczy 

Author  of '"  The  Emperor's  Candlesticks"  etc. 

A  dramatic  romance  of  the  French  Revolution  and 
the  Emigre  Nobles.  The  "  Scarlet  Pimpernel"  was  the 
chief  of  a  daringbandof  young  Englishmen  leagued  to- 
gether to  rescue  members  of  the  French  nobility  from 
the  Terrorists  of  France.  The  identity  of  the  bril- 
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the  French  Revolutionary  Government.  Scenes  of 
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another.  The  heroine  is  a  charming,  fearless  wo- 
man who  in  the  end  shares  the  honors  with  the 
"  Scarlet  Pimpernel."  In  a  stage  version  prepared  by 
the  author  The  Scarlet  Pimpernel  was  one  of  the 
dramatic  successes  of  the  last  London  season,  Mr. 
Fred  Terry  and  Miss  Julia  Neilson  acting  the  leading 
roles. 


Crown  8vo,  with  Illustrations  from  Photographs 
of  the  Play,  $I.5O 


New  York  '  G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons  'London 


Bound  to  excite  a  great  deal  of  favorable  comment 


Lost  Cause 


Guy   TKorne 

AutHor  of  "  WHen  It  Was  DarK.' 


Crown  Octavo     -     -     -     $1.5O 


Mr.  Thome,  the  author  of  that  much-discussed  re- 
ligious novel,  When  If  Was  Dark,  which  has  become 
the  theme  of  hundreds  of  sermons,  and  has  received 
the  highest  commendation  in  the  secular  press  as 
well  as  in  the  religious  publications,  has  written 
another  powerful  book  which  also  deals  with  present- 
day  aspects  of  the  Christian  religion.  The  new  story 
is  marked  by  the  same  dramatic  and  emotional 
strength  which  characterized  his  earlier  work.  The 
special  theme  deals  with  certain  practices  which  have 
caused  dissension  in  the  Church,  and  the  influence 
of  ardent  religious  convictions  on  character  and  con- 
duct. Written  in  all  sincerity,  the  book  can  hardly 
fail  to  arouse  wide  and  varied  attention  and  is 
destined  to  take  its  place  as  one  of  the  most  interest- 
compelling  works  of  fiction  in  recent  years. 


New  York— Q,  P.  Putnam's  Sons— Londor 


.jsssszsz- 


JAN  5     19E 


LD21 


_10Om-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


M541105 


